“Well, we’re off Clyde!” I said to my little toy mascot as I brought the Harley up to speed. I had just turned onto Interstate 80, which is about six miles from my home, and was headed west bound. Clyde is a small toy with a mean grimace to his face and two arms protruding from his head; at the end of each is a clenched fist. There is no other body to Clyde other than the head and arms. Clyde is a caricature from the Pokémon cartoons my son use to watch as a child, and I’m sure he came to our home disguised as a “Happy Meal” trinket. Lewie (my son) gave him to me as a sort of good luck charm when I started my present job ten years ago. As a young man of sixteen now such things are all but forgotten to him now. But as a parent those things are precious and a reminder of a small and somewhat tender moment in my son’s life. Clyde has resided in my toolbox at work all these ten years and rarely saw the light of day. For reasons unknown to me at this time, I decided before my trip to make Clyde my mascot and glued him to my handlebar clamp. There he would be my constant companion and point the way through my windshield.
So now, here I am, June eighteenth, 2010, guiding my 2004 Harley-Davidson Wide Glide down Interstate 80 to a destination over 1900 miles west of my home in Brockway Pennsylvania called Jackson Wyoming. Both saddlebags are full as is a duffle bag sitting on the back seat and strapped to the sissy bar and saddlebag mounts with “bungee” cords. I’ll be traveling alone with Clyde the entire trip, but along with my excitement are certain reservations. After all, it has been thirty years since I was but a young man of twenty-two that I had made such a trip on a motorcycle. Back then I was lean, strong and had a “six- pack” abdomen. Now I’m fifty-two and what little hair is left is grey. My strength, though not gone, is not that of a twenty-two-year-old kid anymore. And my “six- pack” abdomen has now become a keg. “What if I meet up with the wrong people?” “What if I breakdown in the middle of nowhere?” These are just some of the questions I asked myself before embarking on my journey. But after months of planning and telling everyone I know about my trip, I couldn’t let myself back down now and loose face by turning around and going home. I had prepared the best I could and with Clyde as my navigator and guide, I will make it to Jackson, WY.
My first stop was just twenty miles from my home on I-80 at Brookville Pa. There I filled my gas tank and purchased food and coffee. I had been watching the sky brighten in my rear-view mirrors as I headed west, and by now the sky had turned to daylight with birds awakening and people scurrying to get to their day-to-day activities. As I feed myself on an English muffin and egg sandwich and washing it down with a Mint Mocha coffee, I struggle to justify my reason for the 1900 mile journey to see a group of men I had only met less than a handful of times and to see places where the filming of a short-lived T.V. show titled “Then Came Bronson” took place. Four episodes had been filmed in Jackson and surrounding areas. Logically the trip cannot be justified nor, can I explain it to anyone but the “loose group of buds” (as we’ve been called) whom I will meet in Jackson.
The 1970 television show “Then Came Bronson” was about a news reporter for a San Francisco newspaper who quit his job, after the tragic suicide death of a close friend Nick, and the editor’s refusal to acknowledge it in the paper. The reporter, Jim Bronson, and Nick had built a motorcycle from a Harley-Davidson Sportster, a sort of bobber of its day. Now, after Nick’s death, Jim Bronson buys the bike from Nick’s widow and tours the country as a way to “find himself”. That show was/is worshiped by me and the guys I am going to meet so much so that, to this day, it has a lasting influential grip on us all. The Jim Bronson character was not the typical “biker” depicted in those days. His moral character helped avoid trouble as he went about helping people he met along the way. So as the sky brightened and after I had finished my first road breakfast of the trip I fired my steel horse to life and began my journey in earnest.
My first day on the road was going well and I was going to make my first nights stop as planned in Moline, IL. I found myself stopping about every 100 or so miles to stretch, so I made it a point to fill up at those stops also. The first city that gave me any problems was Chicago but those were just minor setbacks for road construction. However, while traveling west on I-80 around Chicago I noticed a traffic jam on the east bound lane that stretched for almost the entire width of the Chicago portion of I-80 and determined I would avoid the area on my return trip.
Riding out of Chicago and heading to Moline, IL. I saw the sky cloud up and wondered if I was about to get wet. Little did I know then that just getting wet would have been a welcome relief for what was to become of me and Clyde and the bike.
About fifty miles from Moline the sky continued to darken and as I approached a rest stop I could see other bikers there and figured they knew more than I about the weather, so I also pulled in to the rest stop. A few minutes of small talk with them I found out that there were tornado warnings out and that was the reason for their stopping. We all huddled in the shelter making light of weather and lack of protection on a bike. So, with the passing of a few minutes the rains and wind did come but passed quickly into just heavy drizzle. The other bikers decided to don their rain gear and head out. I made the decision to wait another twenty minutes or so until the skies cleared even more. A decision I would later come to regret.
The skies had cleared just as I thought they would, and I headed out. My bike and pant legs were getting wet as I rode on toward Moline, but I knew that once the road dried my bike and pant legs would also dry out in just a matter of a few miles. A few miles further and the road did indeed dry and I was only about twenty miles from Moline and my first night’s hotel stay. However, a look toward the sky and the road ahead put a pit in my stomach and a lump in my throat as a feeling of fear and loathing encased the rest of my being. In the sky was a very distinct line as if drawn by the neighborhood bully daring me to cross. On my side of the line was blue sky on the other was a blackness that was broken only by the many and random lightning bolts coming both from and up into the blackness. Encouraged by Clyde and my own silly sense of machismo I throttled the big V-twin faster to hopefully beat the storm to my hotel and safety. I was approaching triple digit speeds when the first of the rains hit and I regained my senses and slowed down to the posted speed limit when I saw an overpass ahead. Pulling under the overpass I shut off the bike and was prepared to wait out the storm like the many legions of bikers before me.
The rains seemed to let up and I put my helmet back on and fired the bike to life. As long as I can get her motor started and running there is a hope and reassurance it will pull me through. I had no sooner pulled out of the protection and security of my overpass and had traveled less than a mile down the road, when hell itself opened upon Clyde, myself, and the bike. Leaves were blowing from trees as were some limbs. Some even blowing onto the road itself. Various forms of garbage that had been discarded by thoughtless motorists was now blowing in front of me, and I could see the trees bending in agony against the demon wind.
Suddenly, in the blink of an eye, I found myself and Clyde riding from what once was the inside edge of the inside lane to the outside edge of the outside lane, and like Dorothy in “The Wizard of Oz” I had no clue how I got that way or how I had managed to stay upright. Had there been another vehicle coming in that lane we would have ended up as pavement pizza. I was scared and shaken, but I had to find some sort of shelter. I couldn’t just stop the bike on the roadside. I didn’t know if the winds would get worse or if I’d get hit by oncoming traffic. So, with Clyde defiantly showing the way I coaxed the Harley to shrug off the drowning deluge of rain and road water and traveled onward while I desperately fought the wind to keep the bike upright and on the road as the sound of the wind angrily drowned out the sound of the exhaust. Time and time again I fought the wind as it pushed my bike hard and blew the rain into my glasses blinding me. I don’t remember if I said it out loud or screamed it in my brain, but I remember telling Clyde, “Hang on Clyde we’re gonn’a die!” Luck just happened to be with me then when I spotted a double overpass just within sight. But the rain and streaming road water were converging on the thundering v-twin trying to drown it into silence, and I coaxed it to keep running to get us to the underpass. Like obedient horse of the cowboy in days long gone, my own steel horse pulled Clyde and I to the safety of the underpass without missing the single stroke of a piston.
I pulled under the concrete-and-steel shelter and as I choked back the fear I also breathed a sigh of relief. I was as scared as I can remember in my fifty-two years on this earth, yet I began to chuckle. I had just beaten one of nature’s cruelest demons. Still, because of the blackness and the pounding rains in an unfamiliar place I felt so very alone. I needed to hear the soft voice of my wife, for she is, and has been, my strength and reason for being these past twenty-seven years. But do I tell her I had just ridden through the black soulless heart of Satan and I’m as frightened as a child? She is my rock and foundation and I needed her now more than ever. So, fighting my way through the fright I struggled to find her cell phone number in my cell phone list. I dialed her number and as I did I thought about what I’d say to her as not to worry her or alarm her of my misfortune in any way.
When she answered the phone I just wanted to scream my fear to her but instead told her of riding through a storm and was now safe under an overpass. I heard little of what she said, but the sound of her voice had the calming effect I was so much in need of at the time.
The wind did finally die down though not the rain, and through the downpour I was able to make it the final couple miles to my hotel in Moline, IL. Once there I was as soaking wet as one could possibly get. My boots sloshed with each step as I apologetically walked into the hotel lobby to check in. The clerk behind the counter was understanding and smiling but ask me if I had just ridden through the storm. I told her I did as I had little choice and to that she replied that three funnel clouds had been spotted though none had touched down. I now knew what “pushed” me so quickly to the other side of the road. Once inside my room for the night I stood under a hot shower for longer than I allow my own children. My clothes were drying in the hotel’s laundry room and I couldn’t wait to go to bed. Once in the security of the warm and dry bed I had a chance to reflect on what had just transpired a short time previous, and I began to laugh once more out of both relief and the thought that nobody is going to believe what I just did or how frightening it really was.
Day two was June nineteenth and I was on my way out of Moline, IL. to my next hotel in North Platte, NE. The day was pleasantly peaceful and without incident, so I allowed myself the pleasure of enjoying the beautiful and bountiful prairie scenery. The 600 miles of that day were broken up by the deep baritone music coming from my exhaust. It’s a comfort to know that the motor propelling you along on a unfamiliar and far away piece of asphalt is working in perfect harmony, and as I enjoyed the monotone symphony I had a chance to lean back, relax and reflect. This is what true bikers strive for. To be at one with their machines and their surroundings in a sort of Zen like euphoria. I arrived at my North Platte hotel and managed to get to bed early, figuring on an early wake up and a start to the third day which would take me to Jackson, WY. and my meeting with fellow Bronsonites.
Day three and 3:30 AM as I lay wide awake wondering if I should try to sleep more or just get up and get an early start. “Awe screw it!” I angrily said to myself as I got up and dressed and packed for the final days journey to Jackson. Check out time for me was around 4 AM. I planned to fill up at the gas station next door and ride until I got hungry.
After filling my bike, I once again headed west down I-80 with the anticipation of meeting with my “loose group of buds” later on that afternoon or early evening. The sky ahead of me once again gave me a forlorn feeling that maybe I should have stayed in bed that morning. Through the nighttime sky I could make out the ominous silhouette of a thunder head and watched in silent agony as lightning strikes randomly jumped about. “We’re heading into another one Clyde!” I shouted to my plastic mascot and this time it would be at night. With clenched fists and furrowed brow Clyde seemed to tell me to “Press on we can do this” and press on I did. After a while I noticed the storm moving to the north east and that part of I-80 seemed to curve slightly to the south west. “We might miss it Clyde.” And by day break we had indeed missed the storm that was now well to the north and over my right shoulder. By this time, I was getting hungry and grateful to have missed another storm, especially at the beginning hours of, what some would call, morning.
A short time later I stopped at a place that, if it had a name I have forgotten it. There were several popular well-known eateries at this little pock mark of a stop somewhere west of North Platte, NE. but only two places open at the dawn of Sunday morning. McDonald’s and a truck stop, whose name also escapes me now. The McDonald’s was just opening so I determined it to be around 5 AM and a check of my cell phone confirmed my guess. I would fuel my body then the bike and be on my way.
Sometime around 8 AM or so, I made it to the Wyoming border but not before putting on my rain suit and taking it off several times due to the light drizzle that filled the air. At the border sign I stopped for a picture with my cell phone to send to my wife who was at the beach in Maryland relaxing with her family of mother, brother, and sister and the offspring of each including my own son Lewie, who reminds me far too much of myself at sixteen and my daughter Shyanne who is also sixteen, and a young women who scares me with her beauty. I’m constantly on the alert for boys I don’t even know who show up at the door. Then there are my sons two buddies Brandon (Shorty) Craft and Morgan Murray. Those two, and my son, make for some entertaining times and a depleting food stock when all three are hungry after “messing around and hanging out.” After taking several photographs of the wooden monolith marking the boundary between Wyoming and Nebraska I once again removed my rain gear, cursing its bulk and its inability to “breath” to allow for the dispersion of sweat from my body. After packing it in my saddlebag I was ready to continue westward.
Later a fog had encased the interstate in a dense and eerie white blanket that made seeing almost impossible. The windshield on my bike clouded over as did my glasses and I was now looking over top of my windshield with my glasses pulled down on my nose at the breakneck speed of about twenty-five mph. There was little sense in asking Clyde for assistance. Not because he is a plastic figurine glued to my handlebar clamp but because he couldn’t see a thing through the windshield either. I knew there was a tractor-trailer ahead of me about thirty feet or so, but all I could see of him was the flashing of his taillights warning me and others of his slow speed presence. “Holy shit Clyde!” “I can’t see a thing!” This was my response to his clench fisted call to press on. Pulling off the highway was not an option. A biker in this dense fog could not be seen until too late by an errant motorist. So, my choice of option was to also turn on my four-way flashers and keep pace with the flashing taillights of the eighteen-wheeler ahead of me. This method worked, and I was fog free and once again rolling at interstate speed in about ten miles.
It was sometime after 1 PM when I left my three-day highway home of Interstate 80 and turned onto Route 191 North at a town called Rock Springs. I felt relief as I knew the westward part of my journey was at an end.
“One hundred seventy-seven miles” the store clerk told me when I asked the distance to Jackson from there. I had stopped at the convenience store at the crossroads of I-80 and state Route 191 to gas up and stretch. I took an extra long break, and as I’ve done at most stops on this pilgrimage, I sent a text to my wife of my whereabouts from my cell phone. Thirty years ago, on my two wheeled odysseys there were no cell phones, no I-Pads to tell of forthcoming weather, no GPS to keep you from getting lost. How did we bikers do it back then? We strapped our stuff to the bike the best way we could and kept in touch when we could. And if we got lost? Well, that was another adventure on a road that led to parts unknown and to be explored. I believe we bikers have lost some of the freedom and adventure of the open road with these modern marvels of computerized gadgetry that link us with sophisticated satellites floating around thousands of miles overhead in the vast vacuum of space. But they sure do come in handy.
Again, off I went. North on Route 191 and the final 177 miles of my journey. The first few miles were uneventful and once again I enjoyed the solitude of the road. From time to time I would breathe deeply as if to inhale the calming effects of the surroundings. Clyde and I would sing songs, tell jokes and discuss life just as we’ve done many times on our voyage across the asphalt ocean that brought us here. As I rode over the high plains I spotted my destination far ahead… the Grand Tetons. Snowcapped majestic mountains of rock named by the French trappers and explorers that were the first white men into this area as the story is told. Grand Tetons is loosely translated from French meaning “large breasts.” Try as I might, I just can’t see the resemblance of these far away yet awe inspiring mountains to the, just as inspiring and beautiful, female form. Those trappers must surely have been a lonely bunch.
I was guiding my iron horse through canyon roads that curved and crossed the Snake River and some of the most beautiful scenery I have ever witnessed. Jagged and rugged rock walls surround the rapidly flowing river, and I can imagine fly fisherman from time to time waist deep in the river in their own Zen-like state, at one with their surroundings. Several types of conifers stood all around me with outstretched arms to welcome and guard the natural beauty of this place. I felt at peace while I rode through this beauty and was apologetic to “The Keepers” for disturbing the splendor with my machine. I truly regret that my wife Judy wasn’t with me to enjoy all this beauty. Nothing in recent times gives me as much pleasure as to ride with her on the back of my bike in a precious few hours of stolen time together alone.
As I exited the canyons I rode just a short distance and there, alongside the road ahead, I could make out a wooden sign: “Welcome to Jackson WY.” “I made it!” I said with a subdued scream. I wanted to jump up and down with joy. I had made my destination in my allotted time and in good health with no mechanical failures and through nature’s cruelty. “We made it Clyde!” “We made it!”
Now, to find the Bronsonites. I had no clue whatsoever as to the exact location of Signal Mountain Lodge and the cabin I’d be sharing with two of my fellow TCB fans. I made a stop at the first place I came to on the outskirts of town. It was a specialty store for rock climbing and white-water rafting. I ask the girl behind the counter where I could find Signal Mountain Lodge and was told to keep going into town until I came to a road called “Cache,” then turn left and follow it out about fifteen miles. “Fifteen miles?” I thought to myself. I had just come 1900 to Jackson and am tired and in dire need of a shower and now I have to go fifteen miles out of town. Nevertheless, I did as the girl instructed and made the left turn on Cache Street and was heading even further north out of town when I thought that maybe the girl at the rock climbing store might be wrong. I pulled into a little store attached to a motel or hotel of some sort and asked the man behind the counter for the directions to the lodge. “Stay on this road for about another ten to twelve miles then turn left onto Bull Moose Drive and it’ll be another fifteen miles on Bull Moose Drive.” “Another fifteen miles!!” I silently screamed in my brain. I’m cold. I’m tired. I’m dirty and I want to shower and go to bed! But I did as the man instructed. “Another fifteen miles” was something I did not want or need to hear again.
I made my way to Bull Moose Drive enjoying the vastness of the high plains with the snowcapped Tetons stretching out for miles. A turn onto Bull Moose and I was at a gate. There I was greeted by a park ranger who asked me if I had a park receipt. I gave her sort of a deer-in-the-headlights look and asked, “Park receipt?”. She explained to this dirty and tired biker that my destination was inside the Grand Teton park and it was twenty dollars for motorcycles. I paid my fare and ask her how much further to the lodge and, sure enough, “fifteen miles” was her answer and I was to, “Just stay on this road.” I told her, “Thank you!” and fired my bike back to life. The speed limit was only forty to forty-five mph the entire way to the lodge and once more I had a chance to lean back and tune into the songs of my bike while taking in all the breathtaking scenery. I started to notice a chill in the air and silently hoped I would make it to the lodge soon. If not, I was going to have to stop to break out my cold weather gear for the final few miles. The warmth and protection of my favorite riding gear, consisting of blue jean jacket and Harley-Davidson sweatshirt, was waning fast. At almost 7000 ft. above sea level I do not want to be riding after dark on an unknown road. It is bound to get cold. Besides, back home in Pennsylvania there are only whitetail deer to look out for. Now I’m riding through the home of antelope, bison, mule deer and bear. Any of which I have no desire to engage while so far from my home and so close to my destination. “Bison,” I tell Clyde, “would be like running into a hairy brick wall.” Clyde acknowledged but reminded that we are almost there and sure enough the next few turns in the road revealed the sign for Signal Mountain Lodge.
A quick stop in lobby of the lodge gave conformation of my stay and directions to my two-room bungalow I would be sharing with fellow Bronsonites, Greg Patnik and Bill Weder. In the short two blocks or so to the cabin I ran into fellow Bronsonites Tom Hansen and Dave Phillips. Tom is the tallest of our group and hails from Little Rock, AR. though he is quick to point out that he is from Colorado then Texas originally. Dave is from Virginia and the “Doc” of the bunch and is the oldest of our loose group of buds (next to Birney Jarvis whom I’ll explain later). He is constantly good for a laugh or two … or three. I turned off my bike and gave a tired grin to Tom and Dave and said out loud that, “Bronson was an idiot!” knowing the condition of how I look and feel and remembering the tornado and fog of my quest. I dismounted my bike and shook hands with them and asked of their trip. I was also informed that Don was about one hour behind me. Don Collins is from Canyon, TX. and along with Tom Hansen and myself were the three out of our group to make the pilgrimage to Jackson Hole via motorcycle. Don can best be described as the long-haired cool guy of the eight of us that made this trip and the guy I most enjoy exchanging good natured insults and jabs when the group is exchanging emails among ourselves. Don had tried to contact me earlier that day while I was still on the road on I-80, and I tried to contact him in return with little luck. Due to my electronic ineptitude I had deleted his number from my cell phone. I will be glad when he arrives, and I can shake his hand.
I gave Greg a heads up a few weeks before our rendezvous that I snore terribly at times and may want to reconsider sharing a lodge with me as he may have to secure all belongings and wear ear protection each night. But Greg, being the resourceful type, chose a bungalow with three beds and two rooms. I was placed in the room with the single bed so that I could snore to my content, rattling walls, windows, and furniture while Greg and Bill slept quietly in the other room.
I was in a tired but euphoric mood while I showered away the road grime and rid myself of the three days worth of facial growth. It was shortly thereafter that Don rode in, and we all greeted each other in the parking lot and thanked each other that we all had made the quest in good health and with no mechanical breakdowns. I was then informed that Birney and his lovely southern belle wife Joyce were staying at a camp ground about forty-five minutes away along with Bill Gibson and wife Jan. Bill or “Billy” as we call him, is a self employed metal fabricator and welder who can make about anything you like out of metal and is a true artist of his profession. We were all glad to be there and with everyone, but our joy was tempered by the fact that four of our group could not join us. Mike and Vicki Blanchard live in Japan as civilian employees of the Navy, and duty had called upon Mike just before our get together. Then there are Jim Williams and Peter Loosigian. Jim is a retired police officer and, besides myself, is the only other member that doesn’t have a replica Bronson bike. Peter is the only member that, to my knowledge, no one in our group has met in person though several have spoken to him on the phone.
The first morning in Jackson we made our way to one of the local radio stations, KJAX-FM, for an interview. We were joined by a local Bronson enthusiast Mark Hassler. Mark made plans to join us later on in the week to show us several sites where four episodes of “Then Came Bronson” were filmed.
The D.J. was Del Ray and he also turned out to be a fellow biker and Bronson fan with the kind of voice that just had to be on the radio. He was accompanied by his morning team member Jake Nichols. Del Ray asked us about our fascination with the short-lived TV show and how it affected our lives. Naturally we were all too eager to tell our side of the story and as we all took our turn with the microphone I noticed Del Ray grinning from ear to ear. I believe he truly enjoyed our visit.
After our radio interview we all met for breakfast at a local eatery to sort of catch up with each other and talk about our plans for the day. The food was excellent, and the coffee was hot. I had my usual of scrambled eggs, hash browns, bacon and orange juice. I always have some sort of juice with my “weekend breakfast.” That way I can convince myself that even though the caloric intake and fat content are an invite to future cardiovascular problems, as long as I had juice the meal was healthy.
After our visit we got our bikes and did a little impromptu tour of the town and several places where filming took place. We visited the house that was featured in the episode “… a famine where abundance lies.” This house once was known to be “out of town,” but thanks to forty years of time and urban growth it is now part of town and as we sat there taking pictures and admiring the house and comparing its looks to that of what it looked like in the episode forty years ago I couldn’t help but lean over to my buddy Don on his bike and ask him, “Is this the part where the neighbors call the cops on us?” Fortunately, none showed up, and we were on our way several minutes later.
After gassing up we headed for a fork in the road that was the scene of another famous episode called “The Old Motorcycle Fiasco.” Actor Keenan Wynn, who was an old-time biker in true form, played an ex-biker/racer Alex who longed to be like, and ride with, Bronson. At the end of the episode there is a helicopter shot showing Bronson and Alex and his wife parting ways on their motorcycles. Each heading in different directions of Route 191. During the filming of that scene there was little evidence of human habitation save for the road itself. Now as we sit at the spot of the famous overhead shot we are in the midst of human encroachment, a gas station/grocery. Also surrounding the area are homes and various structures not noticeable on the film footage of forty years ago. As the guys in the group with the replicas took turns recreating the shot with their own bikes I couldn’t help but feel some trepidation that this place will shortly fall into obscurity due to road changes and growing human habitation.
Later in the day we all gathered on Route 191 in front of the Grand Tetons for our photo ops with our bikes. This road and the Tetons in the background is the closing scene of each of the twenty six “Then Came Bronson” episodes. Jim Bronson is riding down Route 191 with the Tetons over his right shoulder while the background music is Michael Parks signing “Long Lonesome Highway.” It was a thrill for all of us to mimic that scene. Those who had replica bikes got to don their “official” Bronson clothing and ride the highway as Jim Bronson. But the highlight of the day had to be seeing the real Jim Bronson, Birney Jarvis, ride once more. Birney is one of the most remarkable men I can ever remember meeting. Even though he is into his eightieth year on this planet his tall and broad persona leaves you in awe when in his presence. The basis for the pilot movie and subsequent series is based on a short time frame of Birney’s most adventurous life. A former Hell’s Angel, street fighter, motorcycle racer, 7th level black belt in karate, sailor and far too many other things for me to remember. Birney was the technical advisor for the pilot movie “Then Came Bronson.” It was based upon his adventures of traveling cross country alone on a motorcycle and his friendship with the producer that led to the making of the movie and series. Each of us in the group owe him gratitude and are proud to call him our friend, and as he took his turn going down the “Long Lonesome Highway” I think we all had a grin on our face. Birney was accompanied by his lovely southern belle wife Joyce. Joyce is the epitome of southern hospitality with an accent and kindness that belies a strong will. She is a true lady.
For several hours we took pictures and happily chatted to the few curious people that wondered what was up with all the bikes and especially the six look-alike replicas. A few of them remembered the series, but as usual their memories are of bits and broken pieces of the show. We had the pleasure of meeting a man and his wife on their anniversary who turned out to not only remember the series but was a retired motocross racer. Then there was the man from New Zealand who was touring this country on a Ducati that he purchased in the states after his arrival.
Tuesday was the second day of our stay, and it was decided to make the place of the second episode filming our point of destination. So, Leaks Lodge it was to be.
Situated on the southern end of the lake near where we were staying, the lodge was the scene of episode two “The Runner” about a mentally challenged boy in a group of mentally challenged children at a summer camp. The boy had a penchant for harming himself and was restricted to wearing a football helmet for protection against himself. He was restricted from much of the interaction with the rest of the children. Bronson, naturally, was able to bring the boy out of his shell and on the road to recovery with the help of his two wheeled steed, of course.
Once we had arrived at the lodge site we were disheartened to find out the cabin used in the filming had burned down many years prior. However, for some unknown reason the fireplace was left standing. The fire place was used as a backdrop for lectures given by the camp director played by actor Jack Klugman. So, we all gathered around that old stone and concrete monolith for some good natured comedic fun and photos.
After the photo antics we made our way into the nearby pizza parlor where we saw a studio photograph of the filming of “The Runner.” Several bartering attempts were made to secure that piece of Bronson nostalgia for the growing collection of “Then Came Bronson” memorabilia in the possession of the group. Each try was unsuccessful, and for a brief second, we determined as to how and who would successfully smuggle the artifact out of the pizza joint. But with age comes wisdom and theft was quickly abandoned. We paid for our pizza and drinks and left for a quick tour of the park.
In touring the park and the primal forest surrounding the Tetons one longs for a sense of what it was like hundreds or even thousands of years ago. Wild bison, elk, mule deer, wolfs and mountain lion must have been a needful source of food, clothing and shelter for early man. Source of fear and respect and the prayers and worship to The Keepers of this area must have been a daily and solemn occurrence. I wonder if we really are better off today or just more dependent on the fragile creations of man.
This night, just as the previous night, we set up a sort of make shift movie theater in the lobby of the lodge after our day of sightseeing and watched one of the four episodes of “Then Came Bronson” that had been filmed here. It was fun to watch them as a group and everyone had his own form of commentary of the show. Those of us not accustomed to the late-night scene past 9 PM had to contend with good natured ridicule.
Wednesday was to be my last day with the group and the sorrow I felt knowing that I had to leave my friends early was tempered by the fact that I would soon be free on the open road again and would join my family once more at journey’s end.
That morning began with the group gathered and cramped around a table meant for half as many people at a rustic little diner called Nora’s Fish Creek Inn in the town of Wilson. I had my usual breakfast making sure to not forget my orange juice. Just up the road from the Fish Creek Inn was the Stagecoach Bar and perhaps one of the funniest scene out of all the episodes, and we gathered there later to meet with a reporter and photographer from the local newspaper to tell of our trek and the reason for such a pilgrimage. Beyond the bar stretches the road to the Teton Pass where we will ride to the top of the pass for the view and yet another photo op. This time with a sign at about 9000 feet above sea level welcoming you to Jackson Hole. This sign was also made famous by an episode called “… a famine where abundance lies.” But first we were off to see a place called “Kelly Hot Spring.”
Kelly Hot Spring, like the rest of our sightseeing places of interest, was also made famous to us as a group by being an integral part of the episode called “… a famine where abundance lies.” Bronson and lady friend take time to pause, reflect, and enjoy each other’s company while bathing in the warm spring waters. So off we went in search of this magical spring that had once been used by Michael Parks and his companion in the episode.
After several miles of high plains and waiting for a heard of bison to leisurely meander across the highway we found ourselves at our destination. Though I don’t recall anyone saying as much, but as we got off our bikes and stood by the edge of the warm spring pond a sort of “What the hell?” look overtook everyone’s thoughts and facial expressions. As with all things great and small, the years have a way of changing what once was to what is. In the episode Jim Bronson and Monica are up to their necks in almost crystal-clear warm water. Now forty years later the water as we see it, is almost knee deep and algae infested. So much for our homage to this sacred water crater. I know not what the others thought of this place, but Clyde and I shared a chuckle as we rode off and I heard Clyde ask, “We came how far for this?”
As we made our way back to the Stagecoach Bar we once again had to stop as a heard of bison crossed the road with a lack of any promptness. These inspiring beasts seem to have a sense of their own size and strength. You cannot see them up close, as they slowly walk by you, and not have a sense of reverence towards them. They are majestic indeed and I understand why the Native Americans held them in such reverence for they provided food, clothing, shelter and tools. As I sit on my bike waiting for them to pass I try to imagine what it was once like for a single herd to stretch across many miles of the vast prairie. Sadly, I can only imagine.
Once back at the Stagecoach everyone agreed about how the place had changed though there was some discussion as to the way the road in front of the place had changed and where. As I told you, “The Old Motorcycle Fiasco” was probably the funniest episode. Also mentioned, it starred Keenan Wynn as an old ex-motorcycle racer who longs to ride again and Martine Barlett as Nora his wife who goes into a rage at the mere mention of the word “motorcycle.” The episode starts out with Bronson coasting into the Stagecoach in need of gas. Bronson asked the little old lady who is the owner’s wife, how far it was to the nearest gas station. After she informs him it’s about three miles up the road. She tells him she can sell him some gas. After fueling up Bronson fires up his bike and the terrified lady tells Bronson she just filled his bike with weed killer. So, begins the story.
Our gathering at the Stagecoach Bar was to be our chance to meet with the interested public and inform, update and generally chew the fat about all things Bronson. On Monday we informed the radio listeners of our confluence at this place at 4:00 PM. and having arrived a little early we all quenched or thirsts and quelled our hunger waiting for any fans of the show or even the curious to show up. I don’t know exactly how few did show up but if it was any indication, the bar patrons at the time didn’t even come outside to look. But after a while a reporter and photographer for the “Jackson Hole News” showed up and once again we were all eager to tell how such a short-lived TV could inspire and influence us so much. We all took turns telling our stories and the ladies reporting and photographing were gracious and professional.
Once our tour of duty with the Stagecoach was over we all headed up to the top of the Teton Pass that stretches high above the Stagecoach Bar and the town of Wilson itself. It’s roughly a five-mile trip that goes nowhere but up until you reach the summit at what I estimate to be about 10,000 feet above sea level. At such an altitude my bike and the Bronson replicas that made the trip to the top had the usual bout of asthma which caused them to run far too rich and bellow black smoke as we reached the apogee of the road. However fellow Bronsonites Don and Dave have the more modern Hogs complete with fuel injection and computerized tuning and were spared much of the wheezing and choking of the older Milwaukee machinery. After the usual Tom-foolery and photos we headed back down the mountain. Five miles of coasting and, as if timed, Bill Weders replica ran out of gas on the way down. As if ripped from the episode, he coasted down the long grade and right into the Stagecoach Bar as Bronson did some forty-one years previous. We couldn’t help ourselves but laugh.
Later that night we were all gathered around our make-shift theater watching yet another episode of Bronson. It is my last night with these guys for probably another year and I will truly miss them. Each of us knows very little of the other’s private life, yet each shares a common bond with the others. A bond that few understand and is impossible to explain. A bond of friendship that was forty years in the making. A bond that has encased our souls. A bond that has turned some into bike building artists while others turned to a love if not a lust of the open road. A bond that was unknowingly forged many years ago by our friend Birney Jarvis. So, as I walked back to the cabin for my last night’s rest I couldn’t help but think of my wife back home and the joy of seeing her again. I opened my cell phone and found the song I was searching for and began playing “Let’s Stay Together” by Al Greene.
Thursday morning and dawn was just visible. I laid in my bed and fought with myself to get up and going. I knew it would be a cold morning’s ride so the night before I got my cold weather gear out of my duffle and laid them beside my bed. Long underwear, heavy shirt, blue jeans, leather chaps, sweatshirt, leather coat, snowmobile gloves, and motocross goggles. I despise and detest wearing those things while riding. While most find them to be a sort of biker fashion and proudly wear them, I find them to be cumbersome, hot, and heavy and am at most ease while wearing my well-worn blue jean jacket. However, I will admit that with the temp in the lower 30’s I will endure them for the sake of the warmth they provide.
By the time I gathered my stuff, loaded the bike and put on my layers of clothing topped by my black leather cocoon, dawn had broken through. Bill Weder was up and about as he had been each day of our stay, and I suspect that it is his normal routine of early to bed and early to rise. I rechecked my load one more time and fired my cold bike to life. She fired right up reassuring me that she was ready. As it idled off the nights cold air I said my goodbyes to Bill W. and asked him to take care of himself and to “Hang in there”. Like other Bronsonites in our little group Bill is a man of many hats. He’s not only a pilot, but a billboard installer, rental property owner, firearms instructor and many other thing too numerous to mention or remember. I will miss Bill and the rest of the group. Seldom do you find a group of people who by chance click together so well. I am humbled by the many things these guys have done in their lives. I’m just a guy that works in a factory and likes to ride motorcycles.
I asked Bill to tell the others my goodbyes and I drew my goggles down over my eyes. I pushed in the choke to my bike and put her in gear. The neighbors were probably glad of my departure after disturbing their early morning hours with my exhaust rumble, but I just couldn’t resist giving my friend Don a short and quick blast of my pipes as I slowly went by his cabin. I don’t know if he heard me or not, but I couldn’t help but snicker.
As I made my way down the road and through the woods at the foot of the mountains I again marveled at the primal setting and waited to get one last look at the bison or elk as I road slowly out of the park, but there were none to be seen. As I exited the park I stopped at the “T” in the cross road and took one last look back over my shoulder at the Tetons and tried to imprint them into my memory.
“Let’s go home Clyde.” I said to my plastic companion as we pulled out onto the highway. Wrapped in my cowhide I would be able to bear the cold air of my ride and I could see spots along the road where there was shade that the frost from the night before had not been warmed by the morning sun. The ride into Jackson was cool and uneventful, and as I approached Jackson I could see the city and her inhabitants coming to life and trying to get to their assignments. I had wanted to stop at the central park and get a couple of pictures of the walk-through arches made from elk antlers, but I just wanted to get home to my wife, so the pictures were forsaken in favor of time. I wish now I would have taken the two minutes needed to take a picture or two.
Once out of town I was again riding through the canyon that had impressed me with an almost reverence state of mind. The winding and rugged Snake River, the towering rock faced cliffs and the steep grass- covered hill sides all seemed to bid me farewell as the conifer once again pointed the way for me. One cannot be in the midst of such rugged beauty and not feel a presence around you. I was happy for the feeling once again. I thanked The Keepers of this mystical beauty for allowing me to intrude. I will remember this place and its magical charm and beauty for the rest of my life, and one day, I hope to return to it. I was about to leave the canyon and enter the high plains when I was stopped by road construction. As I sat there on my bike, normally I have little patience for such delays, but this time I was happy to get one last chance to soak in the surroundings. I couldn’t help but feel this was The Keepers way of letting me get one last chance to lock this place to memory. I must get a picture of all this beauty. But as I was digging for my camera under the layers of cowhide and clothing the traffic started moving and I was unable to retrieve my camera quickly enough. As I passed the flagman on the road crew I was envious of his job here in this place.
Once through the canyon walls I was heading out to the high plains. It is an odd feeling that just a few miles back I was surrounded by such beauty, and now there is nothing but open prairie and grass land interrupted by fencing and sparse population. Any mechanical failure or accident would mean an extended wait for help. Fortunately I experienced neither and made it to the town of Pinedale for my first fill-up. As I was doing so I had a chance to see what I perceived as one of the town’s true characters. I didn’t get the chance to meet or talk with him but only observed. He pulled into the gas pumps in an old Dodge pickup that had seen its better days many years before. Its beat up and faded hood was held down with rope, and what was left of the bed of the truck was filled with prospecting tools that were just thrown into it with little thought of their condition or to the condition of the rumbling, choking and asthmatic bucket of bolts on four different tires in four different stages of decay and wear. The man himself was a text book hermit-looking type straight out of some “B” type si-fi movie. Dirty and matted could only best describe his unkempt beard. His hair was hidden only by a tattered and dirty hat that I’m sure was in no better condition than the hair it hid. His clothing was dirty and well worn and his jeans had been patched many times by his own hand guessing by the way they seemed to barely hold together. As the old encrusted miner went inside the store I noticed inside the cab of what once was the pride of Detroit at least two decades ago, was a mangy old mutt of mixed heritage. The dog never barked but just sat in the passenger seat waiting for his miner friend to reappear with supplies enough for the both until their next trip to town. I had finished filling my bike with gas when the miner returned from inside the store, and as I fired my bike to life the miner gave me a glance and I returned a friendly nod to him and his canine companion. As I pulled out of the station my brief and wordless encounter reminded me of my childhood when I would walk down the streets of my home town with my father. Dad was a man who seemed to be known to all the town’s inhabitants of all walks of life. From the town drunk to the bank president, it mattered not to Dad if you had wealth or struggled to make a nickel. Dad would talk to all and seldom would I hear a disparaging word about the people he would converse with. I’m sure he would have loved to hear the old miner’s story.
I was starting to get warm inside my leather gear and had thought about pulling off and ridding myself of its cumbersome bulk but decided to wait until I got to Rock Springs. There I would stop for breakfast and again refuel before heading back out onto I-80.
Rock Springs appeared before I knew it and none too soon as I was really starting to heat up in my leathers and layered clothing. I pulled into the McDonald’s that was next to a gas station and the onramp and there I was finally able to remove my cumbersome, hot, leather gear and stow it away for the remainder of my trip home.
After breakfast I fueled my bike again to begin my voyage of interstate highways. I would be taking a more southern route home to try to avoid the traffic jams of Chicago and the foul weather that seemed to be lingering over and around I-80 further to the east. I had no desire to engage the elements again as I had the first night of my journey. To say I had won a battle with nature and survived a tornado would be a joke. Nature does not ever lose to man. I was allowed to pass through that first night with a stern thrashing and a drenching just to let me know who is really in charge.
After fueling up both body and bike I headed down I-80 east. The day was in full swing now, the weather clear, and as I guided my machine down that long lonesome highway I would from time to time talk to Clyde about everything from weather to politics. Between our conversations there would be an occasional flashing road sign warning of the possibility of deer on the road. I would slow and become more alert but never saw anything on the highway but other vehicles.
As the day wore on I became more and more aware of the wind and how it blows constantly, and as I rode into the day I found myself fighting the wind to stay on the road and in my lane. It wasn’t a hard-thrashing wind like I experienced in the tornado but a strong and continual force I had to fight against the rest of the day. It was a tiring and strength draining experience, and I was glad to get to my hotel late that afternoon at North Platte, Ne. I wanted a shower and bed and hoped the next day would bring some relief to the wind, but that was not to be.
The next morning, I was up and on the road around 7 AM and this day I would take a more southern route. I would continue following I-80 to I-29 south at Lincoln, Ne. There I would follow I-29 south to I-70 and there I would stay on that route the entire way to Pennsylvania where I would find I-79 north to I-80 and home.
The day was sunny with little chance of rain, and I had a dry day of riding. After an hour or so of riding I stopped at a McDonalds for breakfast and to refuel the bike. The Milwaukee machine has proven to be a reliable source of transportation, however at only forty mpg, stopping for fuel more often has been both a relief and a time-consuming chore. I wanted to keep pushing to make up lost time during my fuel stops.
Shortly before my turn onto I-29 at Lincoln I noticed the air was getting quite warm, so at the next roadside stop I pulled over to lather up with sunscreen. I used the sunscreen liberally knowing that I burn easily and had suffered a couple of bouts of “sun poisoning” in years past. As I headed south on I-29 the air became more and more hot and there was no relief from the air blowing on me as I rode. As morning became afternoon the winds that I had fought the day before started to return and I knew this was how it would be the rest of this day. Time and time again I fought to keep the bike on the right side of the road while the wind and heat made it feel as if I was riding past a giant hair dryer set on high. I could feel the sun’s wrath beating down on my exposed arms and face. I was glad I was wearing the generous amount of sun block even though its gooey film was a magnet for road grime. What I didn’t know, until too late, was that as I was riding my shirt sleeve would blow up around my arm exposing fresh and tender skin I had failed to treat, and a tingling in my lips was more than a tingling you sometimes get from constant wind. My lips were starting to blister, and as I applied lip balm I knew it was too late for the damage was already done. Hopefully I would prevent any further cooking. The fresh white skin on my upper arm was like fresh hamburger on a grill. It was starting to cook and blister. I doubled the amount of sunscreen on that area hoping to avoid further sautéing. I continued to do this at each rest and fuel stop I took.
By now the sun was high and the heat and wind were starting to take their toll on my body and mind. I was cursing them both as I reluctantly pulled into a roadside rest. I needed to keep moving to make up for time lost by taking a southern route and stopping more often. But as I stopped and removed my helmet my head and helmet were both soaked with sweat and I felt dizzy and slightly nauseous and I knew then I was in trouble for heat exhaustion. I needed water and now! I found the soda machine to be well stocked with water and I bought two bottles. I had to get out of the heat to cool, and as the restrooms were air conditioned I went inside to drink and cool down. The cool air was a welcome relief from the heat though I’m sure the other patrons of the facility probably wondered at my presence. I slowly sipped the first of the two bottles of water and splashed my face and body with water from the sink. I was starting to feel much better and decided to finish my first bottle of water outside in the shade. I sat down in the grass for about ten to fifteen minutes and then I got up and I drank the second bottle before heading out. Just before leaving however, I refilled the bottle from the fountain and poured it all over myself soaking as much clothing as possible and then refilling the bottle for later on. My shirt and pants were soaked with the cooling water, but in the heat and wind I was dry again before getting five miles down the road. I would repeat this process of drinking one bottle and dumping one on my body the rest of that day.
I had made an unplanned and extended stop. Now I would have to try to make up for lost time. The rest of my stops of that day would be made as I needed gas. I would drink one bottle, dump one bottle on myself after refueling and be on my way.
It was around five PM when I made Kansas City and just at rush hour! “I don’t need this!” I loudly proclaimed. The heat now not only came from above, but the pavement was at the boiling point also. Little thought of it is given to those motorists in cars and trucks, but on a bike, you not only feel all the heat but if you’re riding an air cooled machine it means your engine is also feeling it and will over heat. Stop and go, stop and go traffic makes for little air flow over the motor and after feeling my legs getting warm and getting a slight whiff of hot metal I turned off my bike and coasted or pushed it as much as possible until traffic flowed once more.
Just before dark I made it to my hotel in Columbia where I met a fellow biker in the parking lot. We struck up a conversation, and it was then I learned that he was home on leave from Afghanistan and was on a trip to anywhere with his wife before returning to the sand. I told him, “Thank You!” and despite what he hears on the liberal news most people I know support him and the rest of the men and women “over there.”
Except for a brief thunderstorm and downpour, the final two days of my trip home proved to be uneventful and pleasant. Once more I spent the days taking in the roadside scenery and becoming one with my proven trustworthy iron horse and with the sights, sounds and smells. It was around noon when I crossed into my home state of Pennsylvania. At the first rest stop on I-79 north I phoned my wife and told her of my whereabouts and the approximate time I would be home.
It was around 3 PM and I was just twenty miles from my home when nature called and I had to pull over at a rest stop. After answering nature’s call, I washed my hands and had a chance to take a good look in the mirror. I was as dirty as my son when he comes home from a dusty trail ride on his 4-wheeler. I had run out of clean clothes on my return trip and had been wearing the same for the past four days, though I had taken showers nightly. I had not shaved since leaving Jackson four days previous. I looked like hell! But I was happy. I had done what I thought I would never get a chance to do again in my life since I was twenty-two. My bike and body were none the worse for wear. My bike could not have run better and even through a tornado with heavy rains, and road water flowing like a small creek, and heat so hot the air had no cooling effect, it churned out its power and pulled me there and back. So why did I do it? Short answer would be that it was fun, and I wanted to be with my buddies to celebrate the TV show that influenced our lives.
But perhaps there was a deeper reason. Perhaps it is because that the day to day seven to three rut leave little challenge. Perhaps because day to day duties and tasks leave little time to exercise one’s manhood, and even that is looked down upon in today’s society, though you don’t have to be a man to ride cross country. Perhaps I just simply needed to know what I once did I could still do in spite of my age. There is an episode of “Then Came Bronson” called “The Mountain” where a man is in question of his manhood and capabilities in his aging. He makes it a point to climb a mountain at great risk just to prove himself. He, along with Bronson, try and fail to make the summit. Maybe this was my mountain, one I hope to climb again. Maybe it’s the spirit of adventure born in me from my Father. Maybe it was just something fun to do and I just wanted to do it.
As I pulled into my drive way I saw my wife and daughter sitting on the porch waiting for me. My son was mowing the lawn. I was home with my family. Dirty and greasy as I was, I kissed my wife and choked back a knot in my throat. Damn road grit makes you thirsty.
After showering and putting on my first clean clothing in four days, I sat down to enjoy a steak and potato dinner prepared by my wife in honor of my achievement. After dinner I backed my bike into the garage. It was still covered with a week’s worth of road grime and bugs. Through the bug and dirt stained windshield, I noticed Clyde, still there, still vigilant, still clenching his fists, wearing the same grimace as when we left ten days ago. I looked at Clyde and smiled. “Thanks buddy,” I told him. “I probably couldn’t have made it without your help.” In a distant familiar voice, not of Clyde’s but one I remember from my childhood and young adult hood, I heard a proud but nonchalant voice tell me, “I figured you’d make it.” Clyde will stay with me now for the rest of my riding days and beyond.

A pull or two on the rope and the Briggs and Stratton motor came to life for the first
time. I could smell the new motor heat up and sat there grinning from ear to ear while
twisting the throttle. Adventure lay just ahead, and I couldn’t wait to show my friends.
My small world had just expanded by the distance two quarts of gasoline could carry
me . . . much to mother’s chagrin.

That summer I was free. Well, almost. I was free to explore wherever the bike
would take me, and as long as I told Mom. Hills, valleys, and even a small stream or two
were waiting. I was a rebel, a conqueror, a lone cowboy.

That summer was the first time my senses came to life. The sounds and smells
penetrated my being, forever lodging themselves in my mind to be awakened at some later time where memories lingered.

By the end of summer something was missing, something I could not explain nor
comprehend, a hunger or a thirst that could not be quenched. That little mini-bike had
done what a drug dealer does to an addict. I needed something more. More power and
more speed would feed that fix. I wanted a bigger high. I needed it and I would get it.
Whatever it would take. All my friends had bigger machines, and I could see their high as they would blast through the trails. I could feel their scorn and it hurt. But all I could do was ride home in shame. A real motorcycle was out of reach . . . for now. The little
machine in the garage now offered little of that earlier fun. “Someday,” I told myself,
and I turned and walked away.

Summer came to an all-too-early end. School was in session once again. But at
every opportunity I talked with friends of travels ventured on my machine and of
my new-found two-wheeled freedom. Somehow, I felt as though I had become a
man. I had a machine that I could control.

It was about this time that a new television show appeared that carried me
away. A modern-day cowboy was doing the very things I could only dream of doing.
He was soft spoken, humble, strong-willed, and he was riding a motorcycle across the
country. Although the show appeared on our TV in black and white, you somehow knew his bike was red, a red that revealed a different shade with every angle of the camera. I could tell by its sound his bike was powerful. It carried two duffel bags. One strapped to the sissy bar and the other strapped to the handlebars. There was a machine that could take me anywhere. That was a machine that could open the world to a new unbounded freedom. This man and his machine were the coolest. Someday I would be like him. Someday.

As the color of autumn gave way to the cold and bitterness of winter, Christmas
came and although “Santa Claus” had become a stolen childhood memory, I Secretly
hoped for a bigger machine under the tree. Of course, none was to be found and winter
seemed to drag on longer than most. Much of my time in school was spent staring out
the windows, impatiently waiting for spring to awaken.

In the meantime, I had to come up with a plan. I had to have a real motorcycle.
So, throughout the remaining days of winter I worked to unfold my devious plot. I did
odd jobs and left subtle hints of magazine adds laying around and used a kid’s strongest
weapon, constant nagging. All worked their way from a firm, “No!” to a softer, “We’ll
see.” With that, I knew there was hope.

All the while Wednesday nights became the most sacred and hallowed of the
week, and if I played my cards right I would be allowed to watch the man on his
motorcycle travel to new adventures meeting and helping others before riding off to
the next town.

Just as the first signs of spring appeared, I found myself with Dad at the local motor-cycle dealership. I had persuaded him into going there, “Just to look.” all the while
knowing we would see the bike I wanted. There were other trips to the shop, and
each time I went home disappointed, until the final visit. April 1 1971, and I had
my first real motorcycle. It wasn’t until much later that I learned, during all those trips,
that Dad had been dealing on the price of the bike.

That bike was a beautiful shade of red. It had to be red. Sadly, the TV show that
had stolen my heart was no longer on the air. Nevertheless, the wanderlust it had injected into my soul was to live with me for the rest of my life. But as I mounted my iron horse for the first time there was apprehension. It had a real transmission, and I didn’t even know how to use the clutch. Could I control the machine? Would I be able to ride and control it? If I wanted the respect of others I knew I would have to become as one with my red machine.

As I had watched the rider on TV do so many times, I swung the kick starter out,
stood up and slightly leaned the little bike to the left and gave the starter a kick. The
small, but powerful, engine fired to life for the first time.

Those first few days were spent learning to use the clutch. I was clumsy at first.
I would push the bike with my feet as I let out the clutch. Sometimes stalling the little motorcycle and sometimes jerking it into motion. Soon however, I had it down to
the point where I could actually start from a standing stop just by using the clutch alone.
Next, I had to learn the gearing by practicing when to shift up, when to shift down.

About this time my best friend bought a bike like mine. Our friendship was now
bonded by adventure and the beginning of a list of two wheeled machines that would solidify that relationship well into young adulthood when the choice of different roads would end our close ties and ultimately, my friend’s life.

For now, however, it was adventuring the two of us sought while riding our bikes.
The school year was about to end and the remaining days in the classroom were used for
the more important details of life than mere education. There were camping trips to plan
as most of the upcoming summer would be spent riding from sun up to sun down. There
were trails to be discovered that would lead to unknown regions of the vast woodlands
surrounding the town and county where we lived.

That summer seemed to last longer than any other . . . but sadly ended too soon. The
experiences of sights and sounds would live with us forever. Trails that had led us deep
into the woods still filled our senses. Like the smell of fresh morning dew on forest trees
and earth. We’d ride deep into the woods and stop to shut off the motors and simply
listen. No other human sound would be heard. Chipmunk chatter, perhaps the distant
tapping of a woodpecker searching for grubs, chickadees and crickets were all of
nature’s most beautiful symphony. The forest seemed to engulf us. You could feel the presence of The Keepers and we felt an uneasy peace, something strange and totally new. If my machine didn’t start or broke down It would be up to my buddy to go for help, for there were no cell phones in those days. If trouble arose of any kind, it was up to us to use our wits in order to get ourselves out.

Then there was the mud, beautiful and slimy. It could be fresh from a recent rain,
or it could be stale swampy mud, as foul smelling as one could imagine. It mattered not
to me or my buddy. It was nature’s playground for dirt bikes. I would ride through it
at blazing speed splashing myself and everything around me. I could set myself up just
right, gun the throttle and “pop” the clutch, spraying my buddy from head to toe in
glorious filth. Of course, this sort of thing always demanded retaliation, and for hours we
would play this most pitiful game. I can still smell the odor of mud baking on the exhaust
and cylinder head, a wonderful smell to a dirt rider, only to be appreciated by a dirt rider.

I can recall a time when we had been playing in one of those foul-smelling swamps when hunger struck. We rode to the nearest fast food joint covered head to toe, and gas tank to wheels, with the foul-smelling muck. After delivering our order the manager of the golden arches politely asked us if we would mind eating our meals outside. We told him that we understood and would oblige. We failed to mention that the slime we were wrapped in had dripped on the floor from our boots and would permeate the air around the patrons with a, not so subtle, bouquet of sulfur swamp.

After a day in the mud it was always a chuckle to go home and send my poor mother into a panic at the sight of what she hoped was still her son under all that mud. Strict orders were given to hose-off outside and to disrobe before entering the house. Despite having spent the day having the time of my life, all Mom could do was to wonder how she would ever get my clothes clean. And my Dad, I was always given strict orders by Dad to hose the bike off before putting it in the garage least I evoke, “The Stare”.

Each summer offered untold adventure, at least for a while. New and bigger bikes
became necessary. Once the addiction set in I had no choice. Bigger, more powerful
machines become a craving. I would never settle for anything less.

As each summer faded into winter I began to plot. What would my next bike be?
How about a certain make and model, or what of the one with more horsepower and
torque? I read all the bike magazines I could find and studied all the specs. But all the
research boiled down to the bottom line. I could buy only what I could afford. If I had
studied my school books as much as my bike specs I’d have been a straight “A” student.

Summer after summer, mud hole after mud hole, and hill climb after hill climb,
these things filled the void burning within from my addiction. The sights, sounds, and
smells are as fresh in my memory as if they were a part of yesterday and not almost half a century removed.

One day, many years later, I awakened to realize that my hunger could no longer be satisfied. I needed an adventure of a different kind. I remembered the TV show that had
inspired my dreams as a kid, and I could still see the character, his bike, and the freedom he had experienced. I now understood what he had felt. With a thundering motor beneath me and a vast expanse of highway leading to nowhere in particular but always stretching ahead, I grabbed the throttle in my right hand in a near death grip and brought my new bike into obedience. The engine responded with a roar I never before experienced.

Roads now disappear into the distance and in different directions. Each is the direction I want. I am a biker. On my bike I am free. On my bike I am at peace. On my bike there is no chaos. All pieces fit.

Copyright 2011 Rich Reddinger

I sit here in self-imposed incarceration lamenting the weather outside my window. Mid-March and snow covers the ground that, just days ago, in a period of unusual weather patterns, was soaking up beautiful warm sun shine that brought temperatures into the sixty-degree zone and even flirted with seventy degrees in some locations. Now however, the day is bitter cold and windy. I need my fix.
I am tense and anxious. My heart is beating erratically and with palpitations. My mind is unclear and concentration is an act of futility. I am pacing the house between TV and computer, food and coffee. I need my drug. I just don’t know how much longer I can hold on to reality.
I need the feeling that only my drug fix will bring. The freedom of my mind. The feeling of flight without leaving the ground. I want to feel the high that my drug of choice will bring me. I want my motorcycle. I need her badly. Only she will set my mind at ease. Only another true biker will understand.
Cursing the weather and the geographical location of my birth, I have to smile and chuckle under my breath through all the distain. To a day not unlike today. A day some forty-five plus years ago, a day my friend Wiz and I decided we could take the winter doldrums no longer.
Wiz, short for “Wizard”, was my best friend growing up. A friendship that lasted into adulthood and through many trials and hardships between us and also individually.
(Wiz had the moniker of “Wizard” thrust upon him around the time of eighth grade. About the time when everyone who has a nickname gets a nickname. “Wizard”, “Caveman”, “Porky” “Squirrel”, “Wofat”, and many others all earned their title around that time.)
It was in the depths of winter of early 1972 that Wiz and I decided we could not take it any longer and decided to go “trail riding” one cold and blustery Saturday.
The plans were made for the winter ride, as all our motorcycle and future plans were made, the day before in class and study hall. Had we studied our academic curriculum as hard as we had studied motorcycles Brockway Area High School would have graduated two Harvard bound scholars.
We met up at our usual spot. A place Wiz and I called “The Hump”. It was a place of nothing more than a “hump” of dirt and rock pushed up by a bulldozer in the strip mine above my house that had now started to grow over with grass and blackberry bushes. It was the place that was the middle distance between Wizards home and mine, give or take a few football field lengths.
(Wizard and I were both the proud owners of 1971 Honda SL-70 KO models. His was candy blue and mine was candy red.)
As usual, I was the first to arrive at The Hump. I was dressed more for arctic exploration than trail riding. I had layers of long underwear and heavy clothing stuffed underneath the old style red and black plaid Woolrich clothing. Heavy thick gloves and high rubber boots completed my winter riding ensemble. I was probably silly looking in all that clothing with a red helmet to top it all off.
Wiz rode up to our meeting spot shortly after I had arrived. He was also dressed in clothing thick enough to stop the projectile of a .30-06 cartridge fired from a rife at close range.
After some discussion as to our sanity and our destination, we headed in the north east direction of our well known, and favorite, destinations, the abandoned U.S. Forestry Service fire tower.
It was bitter cold and windy as we took off toward the tower. It was going to be a very cold and unpleasant ride but we were going riding. Damn the cold! Damn the wind!
About half a mile into our ride there was a sharp left bend to the dirt road trail. Most times the turn was full of water from a low laying swamp next to the road. In dry times the bend in the road was dry also but after a rain it would be covered with water for several days before drying up again.
Now, in the middle of winter, it was covered with water and frozen. I was in the lead and in my frozen state of dementia, I had forgotten about the water hazard.
I entered the bend in the road and leaned the little motorcycle into the tight turn. WHAM! I went down, hard! I remember watching the SL-70 slide down the snow and ice covered dirt road as I also slid on top of the ice-covered mud puddle.
Wizard was far enough behind me to be able to stop and assist in the rescue and behind his laughter he asked if I was ok. Moaning in bewilderment and pain I told him I was ok “I think”. My first thought though was not my own wellbeing but that of my beloved bike. She had slid a good distance. But with the snow coverage and the smooth ice, minimal damage was noticeable or sustained.
Looking the bike over for damage I felt some pain in my left hip but I was still able to walk and throw my leg over the saddle. I fired the little loyal motorcycle back to life, found a tree to prop the front tire against, straightened out the slightly bent handle bars, and continued the ride.
For the next couple of miles or so, the ride was frigidly cold but uneventful. The pain in my hip was getting more noticeable but I was bound and determined that this ride would be completed as planned.
Wiz and I turned onto a gated road to which we simply rode around the gate as legions of other trail riders have done throughout the years since the gate had been placed. (Back then riders had more respect for property and as long as no damage was done to the woods or road, no one really minded.)
The snow covering the road was virgin and the tracks of the two SL-70’s riding side-by-side were the first signs of human usage this trail had seen since the snow had fallen.
Wiz and I were chilled to the bone but the fire tower was only another fifteen minutes or so away when suddenly my bike disappeared from under me once more. Another frozen mud puddle under the snow and, once again, I went down hard!
This time though the bike took more damage than I. The muffler was dented badly and the front brake handle was snapped in two. I on the other hand, suffered no other noticeable wounds but my left hip was getting sore to the point of me not being able to walk without a noticeable limp.
Wizard was being the master of the obvious and told me “Wow! You went down hard again!” I responded with something to the effect that I already knew that bit of information but “Just look at my bike!”
“We probably should go back.” I told Wizard. I was cold and hurting, and now I had just damaged my bike. Wizard said he was cold and readily agreed.
By the time we got back to “The Hump” and split our ways for home, my hip was hurting badly and I was cold to the point of uncontrollably shivering. “How am I going to explain this to Mom and Dad?” I thought to myself. They had both warned me not to go riding on such an awful day. But I would not hear of it. Mom would be worried sick if she knew I was injured and Dad would be mad if he knew I damaged the bike and worried Mom because I just would listen. I remember Dad saying something to the effect that “If I froze to death don’t come crying to me!”
Pulling into our drive way and still thinking about how to talk my way out’a this so as not to lose the bike for an extended period of time or even worse yet… to evoke the stare of Dad. You knew you screwed up royally when Dad would great you with “The Stare”. It could cut through steel and melt the most solid reasoning the accused could conjure.
I was in luck! Mom and Dad had gone shopping and left a note saying they would return later. It would be just myself and my Aunt Laura (My mother’s sister who lived with us at the time.)
I returned to the garage to put my bike at such an angle so the damaged muffler and abbreviated brake handle would not be as noticeable.
After hiding the crippled little Honda I went in to the house to inspect my own wounds.
All the heavy outer clothing and layers of long underwear were stripped and discarded in the basement and, clad only in my skivvies, I went upstairs to the bathroom, limping as little as possible passed my Aunt.
Once I was secure and alone in the bathroom I rid myself of my underwear and examined my hurting hip. Wow! The left side of my gluteus maximus was as red as the bike I rode and the pain was bad.
I filled the tub with hot water and took a bath while I schemed a story to cover pain and bruising. Should I be questioned.
The next couple of painful days were filled with bragging rights to the other guys about my wrecks and the subsequent multicolored bruise on my butt that was now purple, blue, and black with just a hint of yellow.
It was about Wednesday or Thursday evening, following my Saturday snow follies, and all the family were seated at the supper table when Dad asked me “Well, how bad did you get hurt?” Stunned, I said the same thing that all guilty parties say. “Why, wha’dya mean?” “Well, I see you wrecked the other day when I told you not to go out in the cold.” What could I say, I had been caught. He’d seen the evidence of the bike. But now, I was getting “The Stare”. That’s it, I’m done. There’s just no getting out of it now. I suddenly lost my appetite as I answered in a feeble, “I’m ok.” Dad’s response was highlighted by a slight snicker smile as he said “Maybe next time you’ll listen to me.”

This past weekend was a weekend without rain, and that is something that’s become somewhat of a rarity this summer. It was a weekend for riding, so Judy and I took it to task and set out to put as many miles as we could on the bike. In between family matters and household chores.

Sunday was my day of choice, with temperatures in the range of just warm enough to keep my beloved blue jean jacket in the saddle bag, should it get a couple’a degrees cooler. We headed north and once free of traffic I was able to breath deep and lean back into the comfort of my wife and riding companion, and “clear my head.” I’ve always been a little confused by the term “clear your head.” One cannot clear their head of conscious thought because, at least in my case, other thoughts move in. Sunday was no different. During a stretch of long lonesome highway, nestled in between the wooded hills, I began to think about “stuff’.

I thought about all the people I have met because of my two-wheeled love affair. I remembered my old ridding buddy “Wizard” and how we used to love a good mud ride. I remembered the smell of hot mud cooking on the motors and exhausts of our on/off road bikes. My friend is now gone.

I remember the first few dates with my wife. Pulling into her driveway on my Kawasaki KZ1000LTD, I was a long-haired divorcée on a motorcycle. A parent’s nightmare. Having gone through parenthood myself, I would have greeted such an intruder with no less than number 4 shot, from a 12 gauge.

I remember meeting a loose rag-tag group of guys, from as diverse walks as pilot, welder/fabricator, helicopter mechanic, FedEx employee, retired Honda employee, to a civilian employed by the Navy and living in Japan and myself, a die-setter in a frangible bullet company. We all had two things in common. A short-lived TV show called “Then came Bronson” which inspired all of us to ride, and a love for two wheeled adventure.
I remember coming home from a trip to Florida and getting pulled over by another biker. Thinking I was about to be robbed or worse, I was relieved when I spent over an hour just talking to the guy about bikes and life in general, because he saw I was from “up north” and just wanted to “bullshit”.

I remember several occasions talking to old bikers who just wanted to look my ride over, as I listened to their stories about the bikes they once rode. The bikes they no longer had or couldn’t ride any longer. Their passion is still there and strong, but their old bodies just could no longer sit tall in the saddle. Their stories always choke me up. You can see the longing in their eyes, as they look my bike over and remember.

I have met many people on my two-wheeled adventures, both young and old, men and women. I once had the extreme pleasure of talking to a group of about a dozen women at a restaurant. They were riding cross-country to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the first crossing of the United States by motorcycle. It was done back in 1916, by two sisters.

But perhaps the most “unique” personality I’ve had the pleasure to meet thus far, was a man named “Larry”.

It was the weekend after the Fourth Of July of this year. Judy and I decided to take an extended weekend road trip to a place called “where ever we end up”. We started out by heading west, over two-lane secondary roads, to see the sights and avoid the rush of Interstate highways.

Taking our time without a solid destination, we ended up in Steubenville Ohio.
I pulled the bike into a reconstructed fort and village, in hopes of touring the wooden fortress and learning more of its history. But our arrival was just minutes before closing, so our tour plans were thwarted by time. However, we did get to speak to two ladies who help operate and sustain the historic Fort Steuben.

After a few minutes of chit-chat about the rich history of the old fort, we explained to our hostesses that we were looking for a hotel for the night and asked if there was anything of interest that we might enjoy during our stay.

They pointed us to a hotel just a few blocks away and said that we would enjoy Steubenville’s “First on Fourth” block party. A sort of an open-air merchants’ fair held on the first weekend every month on Fourth Street.

There was to be a carnival like atmosphere, where you could get all varieties of street food and desserts while looking over a cornucopia of bobbles and trinkets, desserts and confectioneries. This sounded like it would be an interesting way to spend the evening, so we told the ladies that perhaps we would see them there and we headed out the door, to our hotel.

Once we checked into the hotel, we asked the hostess behind the counter how to get to Fourth Street and after some confusing directions, we simply asked if a taxi or Uber was available. She said that there wasn’t, but an elderly man named “Larry”, had sort of a self-owned Uber service and that he would take us to any destination in town for ten dollars. We agreed to give “Larry” a try and were given his number.

Judy called Larry and arranged a time of fifteen minutes for our pick-up, as I imagined an elderly man of seventy or so, trying to make ends meet living on his Social Security checks.

We waited outside the hotel for Larry to arrive and it was almost fifteen minutes on the nose when we first saw Larry’s ride pull into the parking lot.

I heard Judy moan an “Oh no!” and I chuckled to myself at the sight of the mid-eighties Ford Bronco II. No two doors matched color. The hood was tied down with several loops of electrical wire. None of the four tires matched tread or even manufacture and all but one rear held just enough air to keep the wheels off the pavement. The rear tail-gate was black and still bore the part code markings of the salvage yard.

Inside the geriatric SUV was Larry at the wheel, his female companion and a small child, who was scurrying about the interior like it was a piece of playground equipment. Not a child seat to be seen. In the back seat sat a man of great girth holding, I kid you not, a birthday cake!

Larry pulled alongside of us and as one expects from that stage of transportation, the brakes gave out a faint death rattle as they squealed the car to a stop. Larry got out to open the back door for us. I was both amused and cautious as Judy and I walked behind the hospice bound Bronco. I whispered to Judy to let me get in first. I figured if there were to be any problems, she could get out quickly, while I and the other occupants fought for supremacy with an arsenal of birthday cake divided up between the combatants.

Larry was friendly and very talkative. He admired my bike and told of his own Harley that he was “working on” and that it was “in pieces” right now. (I had visions of hundreds of motorcycle pieces laying about a greasy living room carpet.) He said he liked the color of my bike and might consider painting his bike the same color, when he gets it back together. A song by Johnny Cash called “One piece at a time” suddenly popped into my head.

Larry drove us to our destination and I have to say quite safely, and in an act of what I thought to be chivalry, got out to open the door for us. We were told that the door only opens from the outside.

Larry was not to be outdone by the Bronco in respiratory distress. He himself, was about mid-forties going on ninety something. Long thin straggly hair hid under a dirty ball cap. He looked to be about ninety-five pounds and five foot eight or so in height. His voice sounded as if breakfast at Larry’s house consisted of cigarettes and a six-pack.
The female companion in the front seat holding the child was surprisingly pretty, though plain. Neither Larry nor his female companion had seen a dentist, or even a tooth brush, since the Regan administration.

As Judy and I exited the Bronco, I paid Larry the ten dollars and a couple bucks tip, just because we made it to our destination without something falling off. I shook hands with Larry and thanked him for the ride. He reminded me that we had his number and when we were ready to go, to give him a call.

Judy and I turned and walked to the street fair, and almost simultaneously said, “I think we’ll walk back.”

“Rich, you guys are crazy. Everything’s flooded!” Those are the words my Dad said to me as I prepared for the next day’s ride with my buddy “Wizard”. Dad was in “his” chair and I was smearing as much waterproofing onto my boots as I could get.

It was June of 1972 and Hurricane Agnes had just slammed into the East Coast bringing with it the costliest devastation from a hurricane to date. In my part of Pennsylvania, we were spared the brunt of the horrific winds and destruction, but there was flooding of all the creeks and streams. None of that mattered to Wizard (or “Wiz” as he became known) or myself, we were going to ride.

Wiz was my boyhood buddy and where ever one of us was spotted the other was surely close by. We had known each other since about the sixth grade and became friends out of need for we were a couple of ninety-eight-pound weaklings that were picked on mercilessly by the alpha males of the school. We were both scrawny and skinny. Wiz wore a head full of red curly hair and glasses which further set him up as a target and I had a full head of long hair that the girls seemed to like but that fact seemed to increase the wrath of the macho.

It had been raining for days and all predictions called for the rain to continue the following day. The day Wiz and I were to ride.

I called Wizard on the phone while my boots were soaking up another layer of waterproofing, to make sure the ride was still a go. He told me that it was, and he would meet me at “The Hump” at our usual preset time. (“The Hump” was nothing more than a mound of dirt about half way between each other’s home. It was pushed up by dozer to divert any running water off the dirt road which once led to the strip mine above my house. The road had not been used as intended for years and was now a busy dirt bike trail used by all the young wann’a be’s.)

The next morning, I set off in the heavy rain to meet Wiz at The Hump. The trail leading up to “The Hump” was a thick mud slick in the wooded areas and was washed away over the hilly parts of the old strip mine.
Navigating through the washes and hub deep mud was no easy chore and it took me almost twice as long to get to The Hump as usual. There I waited for Wiz to show up and from the vantage point of The Hump I could see the valley below and the trail Wiz would be riding to get to our meeting place.

As I sat there waiting for my riding companion to show, the rains continued to fall strong and steady and though I’d never admit it to anyone back then or even now, I wondered if maybe, just maybe, Wizard and I might have been just a little hasty in our decision to ride on such a day.

It was about then I saw Wizard far off in the distance riding towards me and struggling with the elements just as I had a bit earlier. But we had met up almost on time and there in the pouring rain we made our plans as to where we’d go, or could go, that rainy water-logged day.

We had discussed several options of destinations and chose “Boone Mountain Fire Tower” as our targeted point. So off we went in a north east direction over the remaining portion of the strip mine being sure to “play”
in every mud hole along the way that had now grown to proportions of small lakes, and through some heavily wooded country where mud had taken over trails that just a week or so earlier were thick with dust.

Wizard and I had several stopping points on each of our trail rides and this day was no exception. We would stop at these points and turn off the motors of our red and blue Honda SL-70’s and just listen and enjoy the relaxing yet somewhat eerie sound of the deep woods The Keepers would provide for us. But today The Keepers were in no mood to provide any kind of solace to us. Had we been listening to them we would have heeded their warning and turned around and went home. Each one of our regular stops provided nothing of our usual tranquil sounds of chickadees, woodpeckers, and squirrel and chipmunk activity. But provided us with ominous unheeded warnings of constant heavy rains against the tree leaves and ground.

One of our stops each time we ventured this way was a small bridge made of railroad ties and gas pipe. Under the bridge ran a small runoff stream barely deep enough to get a sneaker clad foot wet. But that was in normal times and today that bridge was completely under water and the small runoff stream was a raging muddy torrent several feet deep.

For several minutes we sat there on our mud clad and steaming bikes barley able to tell who had the red bike and who rode the blue. Both of us knew full well that to try such a stream crossing as this would be asking for trouble and there was no help in case of emergency closer than two or three muddy miles back. However, neither of us wanted to be the one to suggest a return home and face the ridicule of the other.

So, a discussion was formed as to the best way to cross the angry stream while The Keepers shouted the sound of their warnings by way of the pouring rain into our deaf ears. It was decided that the water flowing over the bridge was only about six inches deep and we would cross on the bridge as we normally do in drier times. So, with myself successfully making the crossing first, Wizard followed, and we defiantly continued to the fire tower. Thou now our speed was slower, and we avoided the deepest mud holes. It was about then, I think, that we realized just what The Keepers were trying to tell us. But still too stubborn to heed their warnings, we pressed on to the fire tower. Now the rains were getting harder.

We made it to our fire tower destination soaking wet and covered in mud from head to toe. I had never seen our little bikes so badly coated before. The chain was a series of mud links and I could almost hear the grit and grind chewing away at both chain and sprocket. The cylinder head of the
SL-70 was in an almost horizontal position directly behind the front tire and below the protection of the front fender so that inches of mud had been thrown onto it and “baked” there from the heat of the motor. It was almost a ritual for Wiz and I to climb to the top of the fire tower to spit and throw small rocks off it but that was not to be today. We were both cold and wet.
We set about finding a small stick each to scrape the caked-on mud off the cylinder head of each bike to help keep the engine cool. I really don’t know if it actually helped or not, but it didn’t hurt, and this was a chore we always did when ridding in mud.
After scraping the mud from the motor of each bike we headed home.
The rain had turned into a down pour and as we rode we avoided the playful mud dances and kept our bikes out of the puddles as much as possible. We just wanted to get home.

Wizard was lead for our journey home and as he approached the run off stream and bridge we had crossed just about two hours previous I saw him stop and stand up and when I caught up with him I saw why. The stream had swelled even more since our crossing and water was now flowing over the bridge deeper, harder and faster. I couldn’t help but to be reminded of an episode of “Then Came Bronson” called “The Forest Primeval”. Once again, this time without even trying, I was Jim Bronson. Wet, cold and desperate Bronson must make it out of the forest to survive.

“What’er we gonn’a do now?” we ask each other. The rain was coming down hard now and through the tree leaves it was hard to hear a normal tone of voice. The Keepers were angry now and enlisted the help of nature in shouting their dismay to us. “First gear and keep it revved up!” I shouted to Wiz as I once again played guinea pig by being the first to cross the underwater bridge. I could feel the little bike being pushed by the current as I rode across the swollen and angry stream standing on the foot pegs. I made it to the other side and shouted to Wiz not to hit the water too hard or slow down during his attempt. Wizard did as I instructed and made it across. Once again, we were on our way home.

The rest of the journey home was fairly easy, but we didn’t even attempt to play in the mud. We were cold and tired and as we pulled into my driveway I could see my Mother come out of the house with a worried look I had seen many times before for many reasons. “Where have you been?” she asked. Not realizing it, we were gone most of the day on a trek that usually took just a couple of hours. The mud, muck and weather had slowed us down more than we had realized. Wizard was ordered to get home as soon as he showed up by his mother who was equally worried. I was then ordered to hose off and come into the basement where I was to get my wet muddy clothes off.
My Dad questioned my sanity and the amount of brain matter I had “for crying out loud!” Dad further ordered that while hosing myself off I was to hose the bike off and to not put it in the garage “looking like that”.

My Mom and Dad, I would find out later, figured I’d have enough common sense not to go on a ride that far in that kind of weather and we would surely turn around and come home shortly after leaving. The addiction leaves little to no room for common sense and it would be almost forty years in the future when I would prove that to be true once again while on my way to Jackson Hole Wyoming when I would ride once more through a watery hell.

It was several years ago on a Saturday morning that I awoke to the promise of a beautiful day with temperatures hovering in the mid-seventies and little to no threat of rain. For the first time in a couple of weeks I got to sleep in and it was
about 7:30’ish when I got out of bed and looked out the window. Judy had
made plans with our daughter to take our grandson and our neighbor to a cooking show and expo for the day which left me to my own devices.

Peering out the window, I quickly laid my days plans and plotted a
road trip. I had but a few small chores to do so I decided also to change
the oil in the bike from all three compartments. I checked my maintenance
log on the bike, that I keep stored in the computer, and confirmed that it
was time to change the crankcase along with the primary and transmission.

“No problem!” I told myself. An hour tops for the change and quick
wash (I always slop and drip when changing oil in the bike no matter how
careful.) and the few minor chores might add another half hour to forty-five
minutes. I’ll be on the road with the wind in my face and the motor singing
its beautiful baritone song by eleven at the latest!!!

The first thing I had to do was go to Advance Auto
(about ten miles south) and pick up the six quarts of Castrol Synthetic
20w-50. (I have been using Castrol Synthetic since using it for the 2010 Jackson
Hole trip. I’ve come to trust it and it is a “Full” synthetic as opposed to
a “blend” like H-D and others. Plus, it’s usually a buck or two cheaper and
almost four dollars cheaper per quart than H-D synthetic oil.) I found the
oil I was in search of and hastily scarfed up the last six quarts remaining
on the shelf like they were the antidote to a disease. Then a quick stop at
the Harley shop for an oil filter and O-ring seals for the crankcase,
primary, and transmission drain plugs and the large O-ring for the primary
cover and I was home by around 9:30 and the bike was good and warm for the
oil change.

I shut the bike off in the driveway and let it cool enough to keep
from deep frying my hands while draining the oil. (Keep in mind I have no
real good garage or any kind of lift to do any work on my bike so I must
lay on my back on the blacktop driveway for any and all work I do on the
bike.) While the bike was cooling I started to round up the few needed tools
for my simple maintenance job.

The drain pan, the 5/8″ wrench, oil filter wrench and the 1/4″
Allen head for the transmission cap, were all gathered quickly, if not in
record time. But where the hell is my torx head drivers that I need for my
primary cover?! “Lewieee” I hollered to my son. I got a faint and tired
“What?” reply. “Do you have my Torx head drivers and my 1/4″ drive ratchet
set?” I really didn’t have to ask. “I think so.” came a reply from deep
within the depths of his bedroom. “Are they in your truck bed tool box?” I
asked. “Yeaaaaa” came an annoyed reply. “I need them NOW. Will you go get
them?” I didn’t care how annoyed he was. I could have easily got them myself
but Lewie took ’em and didn’t put them back. Lewie will get ’em.

I got the AWOL tooling from Lewie and began the draining process.
All was going well and all the oils were pooled nicely into the drain pan
with only a few small drippings on the driveway. Pretty good compared to my
usual sloppy procedure. I cleaned the drain plugs and installed new O-ring
seals on each and installed each in its own place. Next, I made a funnel to
fill the primary out of a plastic food container lid and began filling the
primary first. I got the primary almost full when I noticed the bottle of
oil was 10w-40 and not for the V-twin but for crotch rockets or
“performance bikes”. “SON.. OF.. A .. B****!!” I yelled to myself. I checked
the remaining five quarts and had three 20w-50 quarts and two 10w-40 plus
the one empty in my hand. I must have grabbed three of the wrong ones in my
haste or the stocker placed three in the wrong place. Didn’t matter, now I
had to drain the 10w-40 out of the primary, run back to DuBois and exchange
the remaining two for the proper 20w-50.

I, once again, removed the primary drain plug and let it drain
while I took my truck back to Advance Auto and exchange the oil.
I get back to Advance Auto and make the switch and just as I’m pulling out
onto the four-lane boulevard I noticed the city workers digging up the road
ahead with police stopping traffic. “I’m NOT waiting in this!” I yelled to
no one and attempted to turn around to get on an alternate route. No such
luck. I was on the right-hand lane of my side of the four lane and there was
traffic to my left so that I couldn’t even pull an illegal U-turn!! I was
stuck and I was mad. All I could do was fume and watch the army of happy
motorcyclists drive by on the crossroad ahead. They all seemed to be smiling
and aware of my predicament as each looked my way as if to say
“Na-na-nana-naa”.

By the time I got back home it was after twelve and I was in no
mood for any other hold-ups or delays. I carried my exchange back to the
bike and as I got to it I accidently kicked the small plastic food container
that held my five torx head screws for the primary cover and the primary
drain plug. All of which are now scattered in the lawn and buried in the
grass. “MOTHER******!” I yelled out loud and for split second I wondered if
it just wouldn’t be faster to drive back to the Harley shop and buy the
runaway screws and plug. But I got down on my knees and finally found the
fixtures after, what seemed like, an eternity.

I reinstalled the primary drain plug, double checked the label on
the oil bottle and started refilling the primary case. About half way to
full, a gust of wind came along and lifted the bag containing the primary
cover O-ring above the bike and into the hedgerow along my yard. “Screw
You!!” I shouted to it as it was blowing away and I finished filling the
primary before setting out on a quest to retrieve it.

I finally, finally finished filing the primary case and set out to
find the air borne gasket. I didn’t have to look too far for there it was,
hung up in the thickest thorniest part of the whole hedgerow. Trying to
walk into the thicket would be like walking into, well, a thorny hedgerow.
So, I found a long stick and tried to snag it. The moment the stick came in
contact with the bag containing the precious O-ring, the bag fell. Missing
every thorn every limb every anything that might have kept it from hitting
the ground.

If I wasn’t boiling before I’m ready to blow a gasket myself now.
I yelled at the bag, I called the bag names, I swore at the bag but the bag
refused to acknowledge my pleas and demands. I went to get the rake.

After suffering a few minor thorn sticks and scrapes I retrieved
the bag. I carefully opened the bag and took out the gasket, placed it on
the cover and installed the cover on the primary case. I then removed the
old oil filter but since adding the oil cooler to my bike I had to tip the
filter slightly to get it out from between the motor and oil cooler tubes.
When I did the filter emptied itself of the old oil. The drip pan was
nowhere near that area.

Next, I filled the crank and transmission case and reinstalled the
caps and screwed on the new filter. Now to get rid of the pan full of oil. I
usually sprinkle the old oil alongside of the road to help control the lawn
edge and this time was no different. I took the pan full of old motor oil
and laid down a good flow and semi-straight edge of oil along the edge of my
yard where it meets the road. Once that was done I happen to look down and
see oil had splashed up on my riding boots and covered the bottom leg of my
brand new Carhart jeans.

It was now after three in the afternoon and I still needed to wash
the bike and check for leaks. So, I got all the equipment out for such a job,
bucket, mit, soap, and scrub brush and started to wash the build-up of road
dust, dried bug juice and freshly slopped oil from the bike. I was in a real
hurry now as the day was getting older and time for ridding was slipping.
Just then I stepped back and tramped right on the hose nozzle spraying water
up my pants and shirt and onto my face. That did it. I lost it. I let loose
with a string of obscenities too long to type here, and kicked the water
bucket as hard as I possibly could, putting my foot right through the side
of the bucket and further soaking my wet clothes.

Nothing I could do could make this day worse. Nothing else could
go wrong. I finished washing the bike with another bucket. I dried it with
the leaf blower and then started it up to check for leaks.

No leaks were found but the day had rapidly deteriorated to
four-thirty in the afternoon. I did get to ride but only for a short fifty
mile loop. The rest of the day was spent figuring just how much that oil
change cost me.

 

As with most of the motorcycle vacations, Judy and I plan at least two destinations. Both are plotted and booked ahead of time. Then a close eye is kept to the weather for the two (or more) destinations. A day or two before departure, the weather is extensively searched, and whichever objective looks to be friendliest in terms of weather. Our heading is toward that journey’s end.
Our quest for our vacation site began months prior to the actual date of the week of Memorial Day. I was down to my last few hours of vacation time and the time off given for Memorial Day was to add to those hours.
Two points of interest and two routes were searched and studied. One to the north, around the Finger Lakes region of New York, extending to the Saint Lawrence River. The other was a southern route riding down the Blue Ridge Mountains on the Sky Line Drive. (We had ridden on the Sky Line Drive on a previous vacation, but were turned back half way down, due to a forest fire.)
About a week before departure, the weather for both headings began to look bleak. Rain to the north and a hurricane forming and churning in the Gulf of Mexico, was threatening the south.
Day after day, the weather for both destinations was checked several times a day, almost hourly. We were about to call it quits and a wash-out, and book a flight to the desert south west, when a check of the weather the day before departure, saw a change to the north, calling for clearing skies, and to the south, more rains were predicted, along with heavy down pours and possible flooding. The next day we were heading north, on our new 2017 Harley Road King.
It has been our experience in the past to rely on good old paper and ink maps for our planning and traveling. We have found the modern electronic GPS to be unreliable, confusing, and with a tendency to take the traveler on the most obscure and out-of-the-way routes.
This trip though, we decided to give the GPS another try, and pressed Judy’s “Smart Phone” into service. (I’ve always questioned to the reason for attaching the term “smart” to a device as bothersome and interrupting to daily life as a damn phone. When I am appointed “King of the World”, phones and their usage will be regulated tighter than any gun laws, and their time usage will be set to thirty seconds of conversation and two outgoing texts per usage. They will also be banned from most public places. Their use while driving, will be a hanging offense.)
All was going well as we traveled on some back roads, which led us through some beautiful country sides. That is, until we got to the town of “Friendship” New York. The town entrance and greeting were proclaimed by a small but charming oval shaped blue sign, bearing gold lettering. The town looked to be of a few hundred residents, to perhaps a thousand. One could probably ride through the length of the town in a few minutes time, during rush hour.
It was at the entrance of town, that the GPS advised us to turn left, for a more northern advancement. We dutifully obeyed the electronic idiot.
At first, the road and ride were nice, with more country scenery to behold as we rode. But as we traveled further and deeper into the country side, the road began to worsen. Upheavals, bumps, and sharp turns made me wonder if we shouldn’t have turned around long ago. The road began to take on the look of hastily laid pavement and oil topping, over a dirt and rock base. It was a road better suited for a three hundred pound, on/off road, bike than an eight hundred pound plus touring machine, laden with two passengers and luggage.
The GPS said we were on the right route and that we should stay the course. Like mindless drones, we obeyed the computer master.
It was about forty-five minutes of twists, turns, bumps and strenuous maneuvers, before we finally came to a crossroad where we could catch our breath, and take our bearings.
I looked to my right and couldn’t believe what I saw. There was a familiar blue and gold oval sign, taunting me with the name” Friendship”. We had made a forty-five-minute loop, from one end of the town around to the other.
As if the torturous loop wasn’t bad enough, we traveled a little further, and we were on I-86. This was a road we were very familiar with, from many previous trips north into New York. Had we stuck with our trusted, tried and true, old fashioned, ink and paper map and our familiarity of the routes, we would have saved a couple of hours’ time and many miles of travel. From now on, I declare banishment of any form of electronic guided travel.
Once we found our heading and re-plotted the roads, our next stop would be the halfway point to our destination of the town of Alexandria, New York. It was another small, quaint town in New York called Naples.
Being the Memorial Day weekend, rooms to rent were hard to come by, but luck was such that an inn by the name of simply “Naples Hotel”, had a room for our first night and a second room for our subsequent stay the following evening. Luckily, we had booked the hotel a week or so before departing.
Upon our arrival we pulled up to the very old and very well-kept inn, on the main street of town. Three stories with a restaurant, bar, and second bar in the basement that served only wines and spirits made in New York and especially those made in that region. The hotel holds a small, but important, piece of history. It was once the venue for a speech by Robert Kennedy.
Once inside we were greeted by the bar tender/maître d’/manager who looked to be almost twenty-five. He showed us to our room for the evening. Before opening the door, he inquired as to our reason for booking. We told him this was about half way to our destination, and the only place that had a room for the evening. He then looked at us both and stated frankly, “You know this place is haunted.” And that this room was the most haunted of them all. Well, that explained the easy availability of the room.
But Judy was not amused and wanted to leave right away. The manager assured us, that the spirits finding quarters within those old walls, were neither evil, nor ill tempered, and that the most people experience are strange noises, objects being moved, and in a very rare instance, glowing orbs floating freely.
Judy was still not pacified and continued her want to leave. I, on the other hand, was far too tired to look for anywhere else that might have rooms for rent. Besides, being neither believer nor pessimist, I was a bit intrigued at the idea of perhaps experiencing the supernatural. So, with some gentle coaxing and the promise to leave at the first unnatural phenomenon, we stayed in the most haunted room of the haunted hotel.
Each room of the haunted hostelry was given a name corresponding to the decor of that room. Our room was clad in ancient Japanese motif and given the name “SAKI”. The dark lifeless Japanese paintings which hung on the walls along with elephant statuary and dark drab walls, did make for an eerie appearance to the room.
There was a band booked to play in the lobby downstairs, and after checking out the room for any unwelcome guests, we retreated to the bar and listened to the band play some of the worst renditions of classic rock favorites I had ever heard. Even after a “7 and 7” and a margarita, they never improved so we called it a day and went to our room.
Once in bed, I tried to turn on the TV, but was greeted with the warning that the channels we selected could not be found and to contact the cable service provider. Since I did not select any channels and had no idea just who provided cable service to the area, I went to sleep, thinking the spirits are as sick of the current state of news reporting as I am, and didn’t care to watch anymore.
The next morning, I awoke from one of the most restful night’s sleep I had in quite a while. Neither hearing or seeing apparition or phantom. Judy stated that she too never heard or saw anything out of the ordinary, though she kept her eyes closed all through the night, even when not asleep.
We were on our way out of the room and heading for some breakfast across the street that morning, when we saw the house keeper and we started up a friendly conversation with her.
We asked her about the spirits that roam these premises and if she had ever experienced anything paranormal. She explained that there were three known spirits. One named “Topper” who was a runaway slave and was found hanged. The others were two unnamed children of a mother accused of murdering them.
In the four years she had been cleaning for the owners of the hotel, she had only experienced one paranormal activity.
She had been doing some “deep cleaning”, as she called it, and was helping to switch the old television sets over to the more modern ones that now occupy each room.
About a year and a half ago she and her helper were moving a TV and lamp, when the TV set was thrown to the floor and the lamp was thrown in the direction of her helper, but never caused her any injury. This was her first and only experience. Apparently, the spirits don’t like change or modern technology. I reasoned this to be the cause for them leaving Judy and I alone. The spirits and I think alike.
That morning we had a relaxing breakfast at a little coffee shop across the street from the Naples Hotel, called “The Grainery”. Afterwards we spent the day touring the little shops in town and going for a ride around the nearby lake. For supper we dined at a farm-to-table restaurant, which was converted from a two-story home and bore the name of “Roots Café”.
The next morning, we were on our way a little earlier than usual. There was to be a parade in town that morning, and main street was to be blocked off to traffic and parking. We wanted to get out of town before being trapped in the festivities.
It was well into the morning and many miles north of Naples and our poltergeist guest house, when I happened to look down at my speedometer and to my horror, I saw that Clyde was missing!
(Clyde, for those of you not familiar with my writings, is a plastic caricature statue. He was given to me by my son when I started my job at my present place of employment in 2000. He brought it home one day, after enjoying a “Happy Meal” and found Clyde buried among the fries. That was some 17 years ago, and now that seven-year-old boy is a man with family of his own. (Where does time go?) Clyde lived for years in the darkness of my tool box at work. But since 2010 he has been glued to all my motorcycles, ahead of the gas tank and pointing the way. He has been my constant companion and good luck charm on many motorcycle voyages, through many thousands of miles.)
My mind went into a panic mode. To lose Clyde would be like losing a part of me and my son’s early years. Thoughts of turning around and scanning the road side, were not out of the question. There too, thoughts were entertained of calling off the trip and returning home. I felt helpless after losing such a tried and trusted friend, and good luck charm. I couldn’t believe Clyde was gone, and I had lost him.
Just then I happened to look down again at the spot where Clyde once stood, and I saw a very small plastic arm, reaching out from my gas tank, as if to reach for help. Clyde had wedged himself between the gas tank and the top of the triple tree. (That’s the pivot point for the steering and the place where the front forks are attached to the frame.)
Faster than a karate masters hand, I snatched Clyde from his unstable perch and tucked him away in my coat pocket, until he could be reattached after we return home.
With Clyde safe in my pocket and the rest of the day ahead of us, I leaned back into the safety of my wife. Relaxing my body, and freeing my mind, I tuned my mind into the deep rumble of the machinery beneath me. I was free. I was serene in my being and in my thoughts. The pavement ahead is as calming to me as a tall sailing vessel on a calm ocean.
We arrived at our destination of Alexandria New York in the early afternoon. Once we unloaded the bike and checked into our hotel room, we had a chance to walk around town and plot our itinerary for next couple days.
We ate our dinner that night at a little eatery and bar just below our hotel. It was literally built into the edge of a large rock face and sat on the water of the St. Lawrence River. From our table, I was able to touch and inspect the rock face that provided the foundation for the building.
After dinner we inspected the town for any quaint shops and took note of any activities we might engage in during our visit in the following days.
It was a little after five in the evening when we strolled down the street that most of the tourist trappings were on. We found it quite strange, that most of the stores and shops had closed for the day and even stranger still that all the restaurants and watering holes were closed by nine p.m. The town seemed to have rolled up the street, turned the lights out, and went to bed. This was reminiscent of my own home town and the similar small towns of the area that Judy and I call home.
Walking by the large pier, we saw several touring boats belonging to a franchise called “Uncle Sam’s Tours”. Spotting the ticket office, we saw brochures outside the closed hut, describing the outing the vessels took passengers on.
One such excursion was a tour of the surrounding area and islands, with a stop at a large structure called “Boldt Castle” and the island it sat on, called “Heart Island”. We thought it would be an interesting junket to take and to learn about the local area and especially the history of the castle. So, we set our minds to taking the tour the next day and headed up the abandoned street, toward our hotel.
We awoke the next morning, eager to tour the area by boat and had a continental breakfast at the hotel. (Not much can be said about hotel breakfasts. It’s food. Though the coffee was acceptable.)
It was 10 A.M. by the time we were on our tour of the islands. The day was slightly cool and the skies clear as we toured the islands and listened to our tour guide explain the history and customs of the area.
We reached Heart Island about an hour into the tour and departed the tour boat for an awe-inspiring trip through the castle and the surrounding island.
Boldt Castle was built at the turn of the century, by George C. Bolt as a gift to his beloved wife. It is a six-story structure with 120 rooms. There are tunnels under the castle, as well as a powerhouse, children’s playhouse and a dove cote. The whole island and structures contained within are magnificent.
Unfortunately, before it could be completed, Mrs. Boldt died. Deep in grief, George Boldt ordered all construction to cease immediately and all personal to leave the island. Mr. Boldt simply walked away from the island and castle, and never returned.
The castle was left to the elements, vandals, and vagabonds, including hippies in the sixties, who took over the once glorious stone homage to Mrs. Bolt. They burned much of the fine woodwork and historical remnants, for heat. The castle became a deteriorating shell of its glorious past.
In 1977 the island and castle were purchased by the Thousand Islands Bridge Authority, with the promise that only ninety five percent of the island and structure be restored, as that was the percentage of the castle that was completed when all work abruptly ceased. Restoration began and today much of the structure is back to its glorious self, with much more to be restored.
Before pictures at the start of each room or space, show the way the castle was before restoration. It truly sickens the mind and heart to see just how little care or thought was given to its history and magnificence.
This little-known area is a vacation spot I would encourage anyone to visit. Just make sure you have bought all your souvenirs by five pm. and all food and drink before nine pm.
Our final day in the area, Judy and I took a ride around the islands on a wooden hulled replica of an antique speed boat which held a dark secret. Being an amateur and novice motor head, I asked to see the power plant of the vessel we had just ridden in. The “skipper” smiled as he lifted the hatch to reveal a turbo charged, 454 cubic inch Chevy, growling angrily at us. You could tell the behemoth motor was just begging to be taken out into open waters and be allowed to show what it could do. Now *THAT* was cool!!
Our journey home was quiet and uneventful. Solo, I could have easily made the trek home in one day, but it is a challenge for Judy to put that many grueling miles on the back of a motorcycle in one day, so we planned a stopover in Geneva N.Y. With a possible second night’s stay, due to rain in the forecast.
A walk along the lake-front and a stop for ice cream, made that evening relaxing and enjoyable.
I was the first to awaken the next morning, and a look out the window, revealed no rain. But a check of the local weather showed a front moving in about early to midafternoon.
I asked Judy to check the weather for our home area and the forecast was clear in our home town. So, it was jointly decided to save the next nights room fee and make a run for home, hopefully beating the incoming rains.
If it did rain at all, it would be the first inclement weather my new bike would encounter, and she was duly christened about two hours into the ride home. Fortunately, we were in an area where we pulled into a fast food franchise and waited out the rains while dinning on hot chili to warm up our damp bodies.
We made it home later that day, without encountering any further precipitation and making promise to one another, to revisit Boldt Castle in a few years, to see the progress made to the awe-inspiring wonder.

 

The Snickers bar is a favorite of mine and I consume it with a slow passion savoring every bite. Judy is away for a few hours continuing her nursing education and so I’m left to my own devices. I had planned on continuing several stories I have started over the last couple of days. (Ok, maybe it’s been a week or so.) A nice quite house with no disturbances. But all I can do is to sit and stare at the words I have written. Reading and rereading them I can think of nothing that fits or flows. Maybe this is what I have heard about happening to writers from time to time. Writers block. Try as I might I just can’t come up with the right words.
I hear the weather on the TV calling for more rain. My mind begins to wonder. Thinking about ridding and another wasted evening when I could be on my bike. The feeling of freedom ridding brings. The power that I alone control with just a twist of my wrist. The calming high it brings as I lean back into my wife as the road beneath continues to flow, opening roads before us. The direction is ours for the choosing and all ways are optional.
I think of the recent passing of a friend. A verbal promise to ride together with her and her husband is now too late. I think too of my childhood friend. The many rides we rode together. From a young age we rode and explored the trails and the times we would take a break and just talk and listen to each other’s dreams while The Keepers would whisper to us from the forest surrounding us. The many mud battles we would wage on each other. Churning up mud with our machines and at the right moment, hitting the throttle and flinging mud into a “rooster tail” and upon each other. Then too on dry days we would race for the lead on the dustiest of dirt roads vying for position to see which would eat the dust the other had kicked up. My friend’s dreams ended far too soon without being fulfilled.
The TV now proclaims storms with strong winds shortly as my mind goes into recall of cross country trips traveling alone to see friends. Ridding through down pours on an interstate. A thousand miles from my home. Ridding down the western side of the Rocky Mountains in a cold rain in June and being hit by sleet and snow. I remember sitting in a city with air temperatures over one hundred degrees and feeling the heat of the asphalt and the motor below me wishing for a cold rain. Along with the heat, rain, and snow, I also remember the miles and miles of corn fields on a bright sunny day and a long stretch of road ahead. I remember the many days of ridding in a perfect scenario of sun and smooth roads. Turns that led to new discoveries and sights.
I remember some of the people I have met while on my voyages to where ever I would end up. Talks with perfect strangers about many and all things. Deep heart felt stories from bikers of years past. Now to old to throw a leg over the saddle they often get glassy eyed describing the motorcycle they sold when the reality of age became more powerful than the longing to ride. I fear that day more than I fear death.
Whether the road is often traveled and familiar or a new road on a journey to a distant place, there are turns to unfold. Long stretches to roll over and free the mind and thoughts. Roads that will put miles on my machine. I live for the ride. This is my quest.
Well, this is all I could think of. This is all I could write about. Judy will be home shortly, so I think I’ll watch TV and finish my Snickers. Maybe I’ll finish my other stories tomorrow. Or someday…

It was just a few weeks before the Christmas of 2017 that my story took place. I had been left alone to my own devices while my wife was in a neighboring town visiting our daughter and son-in-law and our two grandchildren.
Being no stranger to fending for myself and enjoying the brief bit of solitude, I made my simple supper consisting of a can of soup and peanut butter sandwich which I ate while watching the nightly local news under the scrutiny and supervision of the dog.
I had finished my meager feast and was catching up on all the local happenings. The dog had retired to the couch after a long day of guarding the house against intruders when it hit me. The craving. The longing. The need. I wanted desert! Something sweet and now.
Franticly I began my search. All the places known to the Grandkids revealed nothing. Kitchen refrigerator and freezer, kitchen drawers, and even Judy’s secret hiding place for her baking adornments were barren. I began contemplating a trip into town to quench my pastry lust. Even though that would mean a change of clothing from my comfy jogging pants (Yea, right, I jog) and at least fifteen minutes travel time.
Then I remembered the freezer in the basement. Hidden within its deep dark bowels lay a virtual cornucopia, a plethora if you will, of Christmas cookies. Made by my wife, Judy, and frozen for the time being until Christmas when the wealth of homemade goodness of the many dozen pastry treats are to be enjoyed by family and friends in celebration of the season and the birth of Christ.
Slowly I opened the lid. My heart was beating hard and my mouth was watering at the sight of all the sugary temptations that lay below. I tactfully maneuvered a tray out of its frozen vault and with great stealth, carried my tasty treasure to the kitchen.
But my stolen riches are frozen harder than granite slices. “How do I thaw them?” I questioned myself. Do I thaw them quickly in the nuclear reactor that hovers overhead and risk an over temp and perhaps a melt down? Or let them warm at room temperature and risk them being seen by my wife before they are thawed and devoured like a stranded sailor.
In my need for a sugar fix, I decided on a little bit of both would suffice quite nicely. I laid them on a paper towel and placed them in the microwave for about five seconds and then let the warmth of the air finish the job.
Seconds slowly turned to tortures minutes and my need grew stronger. I kept a sharp lookout for the return of my wife and shouted to the cookies to hurry their defrosting least I be caught.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, my fix was thawed, and I ate the first of the round sweet opioids and waited for the high to kick in. Oh sweet ecstasy!! My mind was spinning, and I saw colors as “Inna-Godda-Daveda” played in mind. I was in Valhalla. Vanilla iced chocolate cookies big enough to be used as home plate. Chocolate chip cookies equally as big and with a 50/50 ratio of chips to cookie, I ate until I was sick with delight.
The next day my high was gone, and my state of mind had returned to normal. Judy and I were in the kitchen making small talk and doing some small cleaning when Judy asked me “Where’d the cookies come from?”
Busted!! In my sugary wasteland I had forgotten to return the tray of cookies back to their frozen vault. No explanation I could conjure up. No blame could I place on the dog. I stood there for a few seconds, mouth agape searching for excuse. I couldn’t even lie my way out of this one. “I got them out of the freezer.” I truthfully stated, thinking my matter-of-factness could repel any harsh rebuttal. I was wrong.
I had opened up the gates of hell. Lashing after verbal lashing I endured. I was reminded of the intent for the cookies and now that I had stolen, there might not be enough.
I could do or say nothing. Nothing could be said to vindicate nor justify my actions. But the worse was the threat of no more cookies at Christmas and since my favorite cookies had yet to be made, I kept my mouth shut and sent myself to a self-imposed solitary confinement.
It was about a very solemn hour later when my son showed up for an unexpected visit and light supper. Lewis, or “Lewie” is twenty-four and has a family of his own so his visits are cherished. After we had finished our snacking meal Lewie asked his mother if there was any desert to be had in the house.
With glee and cheer and in front of my unbelieving ears, Judy told Lewie. “There’s some cookies downstairs in the freezer if you want’em!”

You may, or may not, wonder why I sometimes name my short stories after songs. Let me try to explain like this…
Imagine you are I, riding a stretch of road and all things have fallen into blissful place. The bike is running smooth and peaceful. The exhaust sings in a baritone of monotone soothing peace and bliss. The road is smooth and just unfamiliar enough to keep you attentive and alert but not so much that you are tense. Tall white ships sail overhead. Their flat bottoms glide effortlessly on the sea that provides us life. You lean back just enough to feel nestled into the one you love as you playfully hit the throttle “just enough” to feel the iron horse obediently lunge forward as you cut the wind a little more.
The road below rises and falls as does the ocean to a ship with her sails full and proud. A turn to starboard and then to port. I command my vessel to play as we effortlessly leave them in our wake.
From the corner of my eye a hawk sits perched on a limb of a naked tree. The raptor is always alert for those lower on the food chain. The swift predator has my awe and respect.
As mile after mile roll beneath my wheels a song appears in my mind’s eye. Its melody fits the carefree and elated mood of my mind and body. I am in my zone. My Nirvana. No one can harm. No one can anger.
I think of a phrase from a “Crosby, Stills, Nash. And Young” song. “Wooden ships on the water very free and easy. Easy, you know the way it’s supposed to be”.
I send this to you all not with the usual picture enhancement, but without. In the hope that you will be able to see what I saw.